Teresa and Other Poems By James Rhoades |
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E. H.
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| XXI. |
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 | Teresa and Other Poems |  |
78
E. H.
Dead noble face beneath this coffin-lid,
Too beautiful, we deem, for death's decay;
Needs must we close thee in, and sadly say,
‘Farewell, dear face; henceforth shalt thou be hid
From earth and day;
Too beautiful, we deem, for death's decay;
Needs must we close thee in, and sadly say,
‘Farewell, dear face; henceforth shalt thou be hid
From earth and day;
From the grey villages and heathy downs,
The silent pool, and never-silent rills;
From the wide landscape with its windy mills,
And the dark wood, and tender light that crowns
These Surrey hills.’
The silent pool, and never-silent rills;
From the wide landscape with its windy mills,
And the dark wood, and tender light that crowns
These Surrey hills.’
Ay, but hid also from the thousand aches
Of maid and wife and mother; from the wear
Of slow disease, from ever-haunting fear,
And hope that comes not—the long fret that makes
Life hard to bear;
Of maid and wife and mother; from the wear
Of slow disease, from ever-haunting fear,
And hope that comes not—the long fret that makes
Life hard to bear;
From clamorous tongues and rancours without end,
False lights that lure, blind perils that beset;
From low desires that spread their gilded net,
And all the gaudy nothings that we spend
Our souls to get.
False lights that lure, blind perils that beset;
From low desires that spread their gilded net,
And all the gaudy nothings that we spend
Our souls to get.
Ah! the glad wonder of that deathless change,
From lapse of time, from age and weakness free,
That, wearied with thy seventy years and three,
In some still region, beautiful and strange,
Begins for thee!
From lapse of time, from age and weakness free,
That, wearied with thy seventy years and three,
In some still region, beautiful and strange,
Begins for thee!
79
Bitter it is for us who cannot steel
Our hearts to lose thee; not for thee to go.
Yet by thine empty shrine, for all our woe,
Thyself not far nor unaware we feel,
Not lost we know.
Our hearts to lose thee; not for thee to go.
Yet by thine empty shrine, for all our woe,
Thyself not far nor unaware we feel,
Not lost we know.
Thy smile, thy voice, thy form—to these we bid
Indeed farewell, beneath the closing sod
Thus much of thee to Death's relentless nod
Yielding perforce; but thy true life is hid
With Christ in God.
Indeed farewell, beneath the closing sod
Thus much of thee to Death's relentless nod
Yielding perforce; but thy true life is hid
With Christ in God.
| Teresa and Other Poems | |