THE wan September moonbeams, struggling down
Through the gray clouds upon her desolate head,
The coldness of their muffled radiance shed
Faintly above her like a spectral crown:
So, glimmering ghostlike in the dreary light,
Recounting her strange sorrows o'er and o'er,
Her words rang hollow as far waves ashore
Rolled through the sombre void of windless night.
Nor in her mortal weakness could she win
Even brief redemption from the soul's eclipse.
She looked like suffering Patience, on whose lips
Cold fingers press to keep the wild grief in.
Suddenly on the pathos and the woe
Of that sad vision broke the gleeful noise
From the near playground of blithe girls and boys,
Through shine and shadow hurrying to and fro.
A wearier shade the pallid face o'ercrossed;
She shivered, drooping; but through flowery bars
Of the rude trellis sought the distant stars,
Saying, low: "Where dwell in heaven my loved and lost?"
Dear Christ, I thought, if soft and ruthful, thou
Still reign's beyond us,--ah! assuage the pain
Of this worn soul, more laden than hers of Nain;
Ope thy deep heavens for one swift moment now;
And, while her very heart-throbs seem to cease
For rapture, let those hungering eyes behold
Her lost beloved transfigured in thy fold,
Crowned with the palm, walking the fields of peace!
