Exile

I awake from dreams of thee, From the unquiet realms of sleep; I awake from Felicity, I awake to thoughts that keep Their bitterness hid and deep.

I awake from dreams of love Ecstatic, so pure, so sweet; I awake--’tis only to prove That the midday sun shall beat On my lonely lips and feet.

Oh, I have thee, Asthore: deep at this heart Thy presence is a fragrance subtly-rare, As blooms exhale the midnight hour. Whate’er I do, will, dream, aspire, achieve, thou art My Aim, my End. Nay, more, the absolute part Of my Soul’s life! Should hollow-eyed Despair Clutch on me it is only that I fare Forth thro’ the day, and barter at Life’s mart, Yet fail to win thee home. When Truth to woo me Comes, she arrays her in thy form; and those Assimilate twins, Beauty and Duty, to me Are thee and thy soft word. In toil, repose, Asleep, awake, thy spirit whispers thro’ me; Nor boast I hours thou dost not ope and close.

Each hath the Type of bliss within his thought That utters for him all his Life would be: The summit of his soul’s felicity, The consummation wherein should be wrought In deft attainment all his spirit bought Awhile in fervent hope--whose roundest fee ’Twas good to pay. ’Tis so: enough! For me, Be it amiss or be it fitly sought, This would I crave--that mine and thy full soul May touch their mutual deep content, howe’er Life twists its tortuous course; may still control Their Individuality, yet fare So subtly each on each, that as one whole They might stretch to their goal in God’s pure air.