I joy to know I shall rejoice again
Borne upward on the good tide of the world,
Shall mark the cowslip tossed, the fern uncurled
And hear the enraptured lark high o’er my pain,
And o’er green graves; and I shall love the wane
Of sea-charm’d sunsets with all winds upfurl’d,
And that great gale adown whose stream are whirl’d,
Pale autumn dreams, dead hopes, and broodings vain.
Nor do I fear that I shall faintlier bless
The joy of youth and maid, or the gold hair
Of a wild-hearted child; then, none the less,
Instant within my shrine, no man aware,
Feed on a living sorrow’s sacredness,
And lean my forehead on this altar-stair.