What visions charm thy gaze, now resting wide
In settled sweet content?  Beholdest thou
Thy babe, now sprung a man, walk sunhazed slopes
With one lovelier than visions; lovely as
The truth, O Love, when thou dost smile on me? 
Or seest thou him still greater grown in might,
And stout of action marching on to reach
That changeful coloured flag, whose waving crests
The glittering heights of fame, for which men pant;
Unmindful there what tempests rage and sweep;
Alas; what dream has made that watery veil
Hide thine eye’s light from mine; even as a mist
Passing between me and a harvest moon! 
And whence this shadowy wall that baulks my gaze? 
Why fadest thou, thyself, in mist, O Love? 
Whither hath fled thy babe—­and where art thou?—­
Where am I?—­Is it life—­a dream—­or death?

Ah me; alas, this crushing wretchedness! 
And I a vainer fool than one who yearns
Clutching at rainbows spanned across the sky! 
Ah, hope diseased!  My spirit lured astray
By siren hope drifts hard by some dark fate: 
And hope alternating despair has mixed
My life so long with charnelled death, that I
Can scarce resolve the present from my past,
Nor what might once have been from what is now.

Ah, Dearest! shall I never see thy face
Again:  not ever; never any more? 
I know that fancy was but naught, and one
Born of past hope:  I know thy earthly form
Is mouldering in its tomb; but yet, O Love,
Thy spirit must dwell somewhere in this waste
Of worlds, that fill the overwhelming heavens
With light and motion; that could never die;
And wilt thou not vouchsafe one beaming look
To ease a lonely heart that beats in pain
For loss of thee, and only thee, O Love? 
Or hast thou found in that pure life thou livest
My soul was an unworthy choice for thine,
And therefore takest no count of its despair? 
And yet, yea verily, thy love was true;
I would not wrong thee with another thought: 
I would not enter at the gates of heaven
By thinking else than that thy love was true. 
But I obtain no response to my cries,
Making within my soul all void, and cold,
And comfortless. 
         Ay, empty, as this grate,
Of life, wherefrom the fire has well nigh fled,
Leaving but chasmed ugliness and ruin: 
And weak as faltering of these taper flames
Half sunken in their sockets, by whose gleam
I see, though faintly, where my books stand ranged
Most mute; though sometime eloquent to me;
And where my pictures hang with other forms
Instinct from what I know:  where friends portrayed
Like ghosts loom on me from another world. 
Then what remains, but, like a child worn out
With weeping, that I sink me down to rest,
To sleep, not dream—­and if I could to die?

III.  MY LADY’S VOICE FROM HEAVEN.