Death

I close my eyes and see the inward things: The strange averted spectre of my soul Is sitting undivulged, angelic, whole, Beside the dim internal flood that brings Mysterious thought or dreams or murmurings, From the immense Unknown: beneath him roll The urging formless waves beyond control And darkened by the vague foreshadowings As heretofore; yea, for He hath not stirred. Too weak was that my life, too poor each word To lure my soul from all it waiteth for: —I am with God who holds His purpose still And maketh and remaketh evermore; I am with God and waiting for His will.