I
If she but breathe her wild breath in my face,
If she but shake her wild hair past mine eyes,
When life sits tearless in grief’s sunless chamber,
Then through the vasts of separating space,
Robed on with fire of hope my soul shall rise
And claim her.
II
When shall this be?—Not till within my soul
Joy’s lips are dumb, and dumb his instrument,
And love lies dead beside one withered flower,
And dark the gray walls of the home of dole,—
Whence the last flicker of hope’s taper went,—
Shall tower.
III
If she but bend her loving eyes on mine,
If she but give one loving thought to me,
When life sits sleepless in sleep’s caverned hollow,
Then in the night a sudden star shall shine,
And I shall rise, robed on with ecstasy,
And follow.
IV
When shall this be?—Not till within my heart
Hope’s voice is still, and song that suffereth,
And love lies dead beside his silent numbers,
And in the halls of silence, all apart,
Oblivion sits, crowned with the crown of death,
And slumbers.