XVIII.

"What matter," said I, "whether clank of chain Or over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!" Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain. Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less, Sleep's ashes from my eyelids I did brush. The room was veiled, that morning should not press Upon the slumber which had stayed the rush Of ebbing life; I looked into the gloom: Upon her brow the dawn's first grayest flush, And on her cheek pale hope's reviving bloom, Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone, She who had lifted me from many a tomb! One then was left me of Love's radiant cone! Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan, Was shining yet—a dawn upon it thrown From the far coming of the Son of Man!