We can but gather them around our form,
And take his icy hand and follow him.

Oh! will our palm cling to another palm
Loath, loath to loose our hold of love's warm grasp.
Or shall we free our hand from the hand of grief,
And reach it gladly out to meet his clasp?

Sometimes I marvel when we two shall meet,
When I shall hear that stealthy step, and see
The unseen form that haunteth mortal dreams,
The stern-browed face, the eyes of mystery.

Shall I be waiting for some wished-for wealth,
Impatient, by the shore of a purple sea?
But when the vessel's keel grates on the sand,
Will HE lean down its side and call to me?

Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet
See the lark soaring through the rosy air?
Ah, then, will his dark face look down on me,
'Neath the white splendor of the morning star.

Shall I be resting from the noonday blaze,
In the rich summer of a blossoming land,
And idly glancing through the lotus leaves,
Behold the shadow of his beckoning hand?

Or in some inland village, shaded deep,
With silence brooding o'er the quiet place,