 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
76
M. E. B.
I think that thou art somewhere, strong and free,
Free in some ampler region, where the same
High love,—that flickers here with fitful flame,
That speaks at times in wafts of memory
Free in some ampler region, where the same
High love,—that flickers here with fitful flame,
That speaks at times in wafts of memory
On high sequestered hills, or by the sea
Broad-rolling, or in tracts of woodland green,—
Shines forth in steady radiance, full, serene,
Restoring hope, refining purity.
Broad-rolling, or in tracts of woodland green,—
Shines forth in steady radiance, full, serene,
Restoring hope, refining purity.
I think that when our hearts are full of mirth,
And glad, without dishonour to the dead,
Thou art consenting from thy secret cell;
As here the electric pulse, that o'er the earth,
From zones remote and under ocean's bed,
Speaks of my friend and whispers he is well.
And glad, without dishonour to the dead,
Thou art consenting from thy secret cell;
As here the electric pulse, that o'er the earth,
From zones remote and under ocean's bed,
Speaks of my friend and whispers he is well.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |