Lost Mother, A - Part 7
If I could see thee! — know
Just once for certain that thou waitest me,
The dreariest pang would go:
But, this is just the gift which cannot be.
Most hard it seems to bear,
Most hard, — that, if the dead be living yet,
Our foreheads may be met
Never by breathings from their mountain-air.
O mother — just to know
That Death's forlorn black " Never " is a lie!
Then could I wait to die;
Will no Power speak the word I long for so?
I gaze into the void
Of silent sea and starlit deep-blue air,
By the heart's madness buoyed: —
It is in vain; thou art not there.
Just once for certain that thou waitest me,
The dreariest pang would go:
But, this is just the gift which cannot be.
Most hard it seems to bear,
Most hard, — that, if the dead be living yet,
Our foreheads may be met
Never by breathings from their mountain-air.
O mother — just to know
That Death's forlorn black " Never " is a lie!
Then could I wait to die;
Will no Power speak the word I long for so?
I gaze into the void
Of silent sea and starlit deep-blue air,
By the heart's madness buoyed: —
It is in vain; thou art not there.
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