I see You in the time that’s fled

I see You in the time that’s fled, Long dead; I see you in the years to be After me; And for all solace I am given, Night or day, To dream or think of you in heaven Far away.

I have the colour of your hair Everywhere; I have your beauty all by heart, Cannot part From aught of you—I love you so— Though I try, I know I shall not find you though Till I die.

When I have darkened all the day, Put away The world and the world’s sights and sweets —Mere deceits, The blinding blaze of the false lights That arise Between my spirit and the heights And the skies—

When I have turned from the pale face, Sickly grace, Faint hair and hue of heart, thin smiles That cover wiles Of looks that fail and lips that chill, —All the drear And pallid cheats of love that kill The heart here—

Then do I dream—oh far away— Another day; Another light where truer hues, Reds and blues, Live as in living eyes and cheeks; Where love lives, And all my spirit loves and seeks Love gives.

Nay, your true heart is not this pale Thing to fail Short of such promised love as dies In such eyes: I build up all the world anew,— Nay, above, I make another world—where You Build up Love;

Behold your eyes are in the stead Of these dead,— Pure seas of looks, with many a shore Of worlds more; Behold, instead of these poor moulds, These mere casts In some first clay—no stuff that holds Love that lasts—

Why! life—that love; and then its fresh Robe of flesh, With—O what chords of sense that thrill With love’s will, Unchecked by death or weariness, Those dull foes Of every feeling, more or less, The world knows!

In place of all the glassy cheats— Your true sweets, —Of all the lives with which Death plays, All the days Left dim and void when Hope’s own sun Dare not shine— In place of all and every one, You divine!

I know the splendour that you were— —You shall be; I see that nothing is so fair As you there; I know that you—the thing I crave— Men shall see Again, when I am in the grave, —After me.

O, whose shall be the barren years? Whose the tears? God, who of all this world of ours Gathers flowers —Taketh and maketh heaven, and faileth Not at all, Maketh a heaven that prevaileth Out of all—

Shall God have care for this and this —Flowers that miss The love that gathers and that saves? For these graves, Shall love to be, or love that’s past, Safe above, Be less than perfected at last, Less than Love?

O, who shall have the barren years? Who the tears? You, World that gave me a false kiss, Shall have this: But I—I know that Love hath been, And shall be Again, when I am no more seen, —After me.