“Do you know how lonely-hearted
  I have been each weary day,
Praying that each passing hour
  Would bear my life away,
That we might be united
  Upon that distant shore?”

“Laurence, we are not parted,
  I am with your evermore.”

“I cannot see you, darling,
  Your face I cannot see.”

“Can you see the moon’s white fingers,
  That leads the pleading sea? 
Can you see the fragrance lingering
  Where summer roses be? 
The soft winds tender clasping,
  The close-enwrapping air
Enfolding you—­Oh, Laurence,
  I am with you everywhere.”

Then while her face grew brighter
  As with a heavenly glow,
In tenderness unspeakable,
  She kissed my lips and brow;
Then I lost her—­then she left me,
  As at the set of day
The snowy clouds float outward,
  And melt in light away. 
I heard low strains of melody
  No earthly choir could sing,
A light breath floated past me,
  As from a gliding wing;
And on my darkened spirit
  There fell so bright a gleam,
I knew the blessed vision
  Was not in truth a dream;
Though death had won from my embrace,
  My beautiful, my bride,
I had won a richer treasure,
  An angel by my side.

The Father careth for us all
  In pity, and I know
My love is not forever gone
  From him who loved her so;
When a few more days have drifted
  Their shadows over me,
When the golden gates are lifted,
  My angel I shall see;
Her veiled face in its glory
  Upon my gaze will rise,
And Heaven will shine upon me
  Through the sweetness of her eyes.

GRIEF.

What though the Eden morns were sweet with song
  Passing all sweetness that our thought can reach;
Crushing its flowers noon’s chariot moved along
  In brightness far transcending mortal speech;
Yet in the twilight shades did God appear,
Oh welcome shadows so that He draw near.

Prosperity is flushed with Papal ease
  And grants indulgences to pride of word,
Robing our soul in pomp and vanities,
  Ah! no fit dwelling for our gentle Lord;
Grief rends those draperies of pride and sin,
And so our Lord will deign to enter in.

Then carefully we curb each thought of wrong,
  We walk more softly, with more reverent feet—­
As in His presence chamber, hush our tongue,
  And in the holy quiet, solemn, sweet,
We feel His smile, we hear His voice so low,
So we can bless Him that He gave us woe.

What cares the sailor in the sheltered cove
  For the past peril of the stormy sea;
Dear from grief’s storm the haven of His love,
  And so He bringeth us where we would be;
We trust in Him, we lean upon His breast,
Who shall make trouble when He giveth rest?

WILD OATS.