And as the spring went on, his budding life
Swelled up and budded towards the invisible,
Bursting the earthy mould wherein it lay. 
He never thought of churchyards, as before,
When he was strong; but ever looked above,
Away from the green earth to the blue sky,
And thanked God that he died not in the cold. 
“For,” said he, “I would rather go abroad
When the sun shines, and birds are happy here. 
For, though it may be we shall know no place,
But only mighty realms of making thought,
(Not living in creation any more,
But evermore creating our own worlds)
Yet still it seems as if I had to go
Into the sea of air that floats and heaves,
And swings its massy waves around our earth,
And may feel wet to the unclothed soul;
And I would rather go when it is full
Of light and blueness, than when grey and fog
Thicken it with the steams of the old earth. 
Now in the first of summer I shall die;
Lying, mayhap, at sunset, sinking asleep,
And going with the light, and from the dark;
And when the earth is dark, they’ll say:  ‘He is dead;’
But I shall say:  ’Ah God!  I live and love;
The earth is fair, but this is fairer still;
My dear ones, they were very dear; but now
The past is past; for they are dearer still.’ 
So I shall go, in starlight, it may be,
Or lapt in moonlight ecstasies, to seek
The heart of all, the man of all, my friend;
Whom I shall know my own beyond all loves,
Because he makes all loving true and deep;
And I live on him, in him, he in me.”

The weary days and nights had taught him much;
Had sent him, as a sick child creeps along,
Until he hides him in his mother’s breast,
Seeking for God.  For all he knew before
Seemed as he knew it not.  He needed now
To feel God’s arms around him hold him close,
Close to his heart, ere he could rest an hour. 
And God was very good to him, he said.

Ah God! we need the winter as the spring;
And thy poor children, knowing thy great heart,
And that thou bearest thy large share of grief,
Because thou lovest goodness more than joy
In them thou lovest,—­so dost let them grieve,
Will cease to vex thee with their peevish cries,
Will look and smile, though they be sorrowful;
And not the less pray for thy help, when pain
Is overstrong, coming to thee for rest. 
One day we praise thee for, without, the pain.

One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep. 
His soul was like an empty darkened room,
Through which strange pictures pass from the outer world;
While regnant will lay passive and looked on. 
But the eye-tube through which the shadows came
Was turned towards the past.  One after one
Arose old scenes, old sorrows, old delights. 
Ah God! how sad are all things that grow old;
Even the rose-leaves have a mournful scent,
And old brown letters are more sad than graves;
Old kisses lie about the founts of tears,
Like autumn leaves around the winter wells;
And yet they cannot die.  A smile once smiled
Is to eternity a smile—­no less;
And that which smiles and kisses, liveth still;
And thou canst do great wonders, Wonderful!