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CLARA.
Of life, to run in God's appointed ways,
The songs of weariness all hushed in sweeter
psalms of praise.
CLARA.
A SOUL of music and wind,
So pure from the gates of birth,
That how could we hope to bind
The rare and beautiful mind
To a perishing form of earth?
She quivered within its hold,
Yet we loved her, ah, so well,
That we thought our love might fold
Her spirit against the cold
Of this land wherein we dwell.
But still through our tenderest word,
Through the sea's mysterious tone,
Through the song of our sweetest bird,
She listened and ever heard
An echo beyond our own.
The shadow troubled her sore
That holdeth our mortal eyes ;
We weep, for forevermore
The vision of that dim shore
In beauty before her lies.
