Helen in the Wood
At last I raised mine eyes. Behold,
The branches green, the bracken's gold
Gained a new meaning in my sight,
That found the centre of their light.
For down the dim wood-arches came—
Was it a star ? Was it a flame?—
No; there my Helen went, all white.
Just as of old, above the large
Sweet eyes, the hair made golden marge;
Thro' tangled fern, thro' grass still wet.
Herfeet went firmly on;— and yet
I knew, altho' no word was said,
She did not live, she was not dead.
Ah, having loved we cannot lose!
The deepest grave can ne'er refuse
The phantom of the Past, the ghost
Of all we loved and owned and lost!
So once, one moment, Helen dear,
I saw thee still beside me here.
I praised the old familiar grace. . . .
She paused, she looked me in the face,
Smiled once her smile that understood.
Passed;—and how lonely was the wood!
I trod the way I went before;
I passed the church's open door.
The hymn went pealing up the sky:
"O love, how deep! how broad! how high!"
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