WE sit beside the lower feast to-day;
She at the higher.
Our voices falter as we bend to pray;
In the great choir
Of happy saints she sings, and does not tire.
We break the bread of patience, and the wine
Of tears we share;
She tastes the vintage of that glorious vine
Whose branches fair
Set for the healing of all nations are.
I wonder is she sorry for our pain,
Or if, grown wise,
She wondering smiles, and counts them idle, vain,—
These heavy sighs,
These longings for her face and happy eyes.
Smile on, then, darling! As God wills, is best.
We loose our hold,
Content to leave thee to the deeper rest,
The safer fold,
To joy’s immortal youth while we grow old;
Content the cold and wintry day to bear,
The icy wave,
And know thee in immortal summer there,
Beyond the grave;
Content to give thee to the Love that gave.