 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
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THE HOPE OF OUR FOREFATHERS
Methought a dear one came from death's retreat:
The pale presentment of his face was thin.
Ruin sat greyly there, a shadow of sin.
Fire needed none, nor any such red beat
Of rain as soak'd Canute's snow winding-sheet;
Only the recollection that can win
No pause, the footsteps that cannot pass in,
The restless recollection, the tired feet.
‘Thou art not happy?’ and he answered, ‘No!’
‘Come to me! Jesus saith,’ I made reply.
‘Hast thou not part in that, though so forlorn?’
‘Yes; but the time is long, and my feet slow.’
He spake, and with a faint, immortal sigh
Left me—yet hope grew thro' the grey of morn.
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |