Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, What households, though not alien, yet not mine, What bowers of rest divine; To what temptations in lone wildernesses, What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, The bearing of what cross! I do not know; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold The story still untold, But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, Until "The End" I read. But, instead, she builds me bridges Over many a dark ravine, Where beneath the gusty ridges Cataracts dash and roar unseen. And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding Footsteps that have gone before. Naught avails the imploring gesture, Naught avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture, 'Tis the gray robe of the rain. 2 Baffled I return, and, leaning O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud. And the sounds of life ascending Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near. Well I know what there lies hidden, Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden. Reassumes its vanished charm. |