Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE EXPRESSES HIS GRATITUDE THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE VISITS HIM IN VISIONS

Soul of my soul, how often you return
Bearing in your small hands the gift of peace
Like perfume; Death has cancelled his dark lease
Upon those eyes, renewed them, bade them burn!
Ah, God be praised that your bliss does not spurn
My blackness, but with radiant increase
Of light illumines grief until it sees
Again your lonely haunts, your lovely urn!
Look you, how here, where so long I had lifted
A joyous voice, I pour laments instead
For you! — Ah no, for my dead dreams thick-drifted
As summer's grave! ... One solace is not dead:
By many a sign I feel you near and keen —
Your step, voice, look — that robe of cherished green!