 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
125
I ABIDE IT.
Love, I abide it, come to me what may
When this my life is done, whose tides now fall
'Twixt shores wherefrom pale memories lean and call
On some sweet night, or dead, delicious day:
And as a gray sky makes the whole sea gray,
So, 'neath this vast, impenetrable pall
Of hopeless sorrow reaching over all,
My life rolls on its unbeholden way:—
When this my life is done, whose tides now fall
'Twixt shores wherefrom pale memories lean and call
On some sweet night, or dead, delicious day:
And as a gray sky makes the whole sea gray,
So, 'neath this vast, impenetrable pall
Of hopeless sorrow reaching over all,
My life rolls on its unbeholden way:—
Whether thou wilt in death dispel this pain,
And give me sleep instead, or cry, “Arise!
Prepare to meet her lips, her voice, her eyes,”
I cannot tell; such things with thee remain,
According to thy will, which, though thou hide it,
I question not, but living, I abide it.
And give me sleep instead, or cry, “Arise!
Prepare to meet her lips, her voice, her eyes,”
I cannot tell; such things with thee remain,
According to thy will, which, though thou hide it,
I question not, but living, I abide it.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |