Classic Poem

Am I bewildered with mesmeric sleep,
Till life's surroundings are not what they seem?
Has my poor brain grown dizzy, till I keep
Vigil with phantoms? Surely some glad beam
Of morning light will wake me from a dream,
And I shall find thee near me, love, once more!
They told me thou wert dead, but still I deem
That when a few long, weary days are o'er,
Thou wilt return to me from that far, shadowy shore.

Through the still chambers of the solemn night,
My spirit seeks thee fearless and alone —
Seeks thee with yearning cry. Is there no might
In human love, no holy word, no tone,
To reach thee in the distant, dim unknown?
Hast thou forgotten me? Thou wert and art
The magnate of my being; we had grown
Into one mind, one soul, one loving heart,
Which neither life, nor death, nor time, nor space can part.

Could I live o'er again a single day
Of all the pleasant years I spent with thee;
Could I by watching, waiting, hear thee say
The least word thou didst ever speak to me;
To hear thy coming feet, to turn and see
Thy dear eyes, with the old affection rife,
To learn my aching head upon thy knee,
And hear thy low voice fondly call me wife —
Oh, this were worth all, all the poor remains of life?

Together we went forth amidst the flowers
And sunshine of life's spring, together heard
The witching song of hope in summer bowers;
Feeling, emotion, passion, stilled or stirred
Our hearts in unison; one thought, one word,
Moved both alike to pleasure or to pain.
We saw our idols broken, we interred
The hopes we fondly nursed for years in vain;
Then why didst thou go hence, or why did I remain?

I may seem to the busy world the same;
May care and toil and strive, but not for gold;
May sing my simple rhymes, but not for fame;
May smile, but never as I smiled of old;
For an unmoving shadow, dark and cold,
Lies on my hearthstone: the lone path I tread
Is haunted by sad memories; damp and mould
Grow on the altar fondest love once fed,
And my heart's passion-flower is planted by its dead.

I stood beside thee when thy work was done,
When the pale angel came from God and laid
His hand upon thy heart. A glory shone
From heaven upon thy cold, white face, and made
A halo round us as we wept and prayed.
Leaning on Faith, the meek-eyed and the mild,
Thou didst put off life's garment, undismayed,
And sink to sleep as some pure-hearted child
Wearied with idle toys which had too long beguiled.

'Men may forget that thou hast lived and wrought
Thy life-task well; thine was no lofty aim,
Yet thou wert good and true in deed and thought,
Seeking no praise, incurring little blame:
With an unselfish heart and spotless fame,
Thou didst walk humbly to life's close sublime;
And so it recks not how or when thy name
Is blotted from men's hearts by dust and rime,
And dashed by ebbing waves from the frail sands of Time.

Day follows day, with night and purple dawn,
And the sweet witchery of starry eves;
And evermore the old world hurries on,
While the pale reaper gathers in the sheaves
Of his perpetual harvest. Some he leaves
To wait and weep awhile: but Time's poor dower
Is only lent till the tried heart achieves
Its work below. And, by God's grace and power,
I shall rejoin thee, love, when death crowns life's last hour.