La Pia

Brother, 't were sweet your hand to feel In mine; it would a little heal The shame that makes me poor, And dumb at the heart's core.

But where our spirits felt Love's dearth, Down on the green and pleasant earth, Remains the fleshly shell, Love's garment tangible.

So now our hands have naught to say: Heart unto heart some other way Must utter forth its pain, Must glee or comfort gain.

Ah, no! For souls like you and me Some comfort waits, but never glee: Not yours the young men's singing In Heaven, at the bride-bringing;

Not mine, beside God's living waters, Dance of the marriageable daughters, The laughter and the ease Beneath His summer trees.