To do thy errands thus, and think
It may be, in the blue, far space,
Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,--
A smile upon my face.

And when the day's work ends with day,
And star-eyed evening, stealing in,
Waves a cool hand to flying noon,
And restless, surging thoughts begin,
Like sad bells out of tune,

I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great love
Nor bound nor limit line is set,
Give to my darling, I implore,
Some new sweet joy not tasted yet,
For I can give no more."

And with the words my thoughts shall climb
With following feet the heavenly stair
Up which thy steps so lately sped,
And, seeing thee so happy there,
Come back half comforted.




THE CRADLE TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

A little, rudely sculptured bed,
With shadowing folds of marble lace,