X. A Farewell

Thou movest from us; we shall see Thy face No more. Ah, look below these troubled eyes, This woman’s heart in us that faints and dies, Trust not our faltering lips, our sad amaze; Glance some time downward from Thy golden place, And know how we rejoice. It is meet, is wise; High tasks are Thine, surrenders, victories, Communings pure, mysterious works and ways. Leave us: how should we keep Thee in these blown Grey fields, or soil with earth a Master’s feet? Nor deem us comfortless: have we not known Thee once, for ever. Friend, the pain is sweet Seeing Thy completeness to have grown complete, Thy gift it is that we can walk alone.