Classic Poem

Love, whom I have loved too well,
Turn thy face away from me;
For I heed nor Heaven nor Hell
While mine eyes can look on thee.
Do not answer, do not speak,
For thy voice can make me weak.

I must choose 'twixt God and man,
And I dare not hesitate:
Oh how little is life's span,
And Eternity how great!
Go out from me; for I fear
Mine own strength while thou art here.

Husband, leave me; but know this:
I would gladly give my soul
So that thine might dwell in bliss
Free from the accursed control,
So that thou mightest go hence
In a hopeful penitence.

Yea, from Hell I would look up,
And behold thee in thy place,
Drinking of the living cup,
With the joy-look on thy face,
And the Light that shines alone
From the Glory of the Throne.

But how could my endless loss
Be thine everlasting gain?
Shall thy palm grow from my cross?
Shall thine ease be in my pain?
Yea, thine own soul witnesseth
Thy life is not in my death.

It were vain that I should die;
That we thus should perish both;
Thou would'st gain no peace thereby;
And in truth I should be loath
By the loss of my salvation
To increase thy condemnation.

Little infant, his and mine,
Would that I were as thou art;
Nothing breaks that sleep of thine,
And ah! nothing breaks thy heart;
And thou knowest nought of strife,
The heart's death for the soul's life.

None misdoubt thee; none misdeem
Of thy wishes and thy will.
All thy thoughts are what they seem,
Very pure and very still;
And thou fearest not the voice
That once made thy heart rejoice.

Oh how calm thou art, my child!
I could almost envy thee.
Thou hast neither wept nor smiled,
Thou that sleepest quietly.
Would I also were at rest
With the one that I love best.

Husband, go. I dare not hearken
To thy words, or look upon
Those despairing eyes that darken
Down on me—but he is gone.
Nay, come back; and be my fate
As thou wilt—it is too late.

I have conquered; it is done;
Yea, the death-struggle is o'er,
And the hopeless quiet won!—
I shall see his face no more!—
And mine eyes are waxing dim
Now they cannot look on him.

And my heart-pulses are growing
Very weak; and thro' my whole
Life-blood a slow chill is going:—
Blessed Saviour, take my soul
To Thy Paradise and care;—
Paradise, will he be there?