Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I said, I do assign
A day far hence to speak with Thee; if late
Or soon it fall, I know not, for its date
Rests not with me, but One above, who draws
Our ruins to an order through the fine
And ceaseless working of His kindly laws;
For we are hasty builders incomplete;
Our Master follows after, far more slow
And far more sure than we, for frost and heat,
And winds that breathe, and waters in their flow
Work with Him silently; we stand too near
The part as yet to look upon the whole;
That thing which shall be doth not yet appear;
It is not with the eye but with the soul
That we must view God's work;

Of when and where
We ask not wisely; if our meeting were
Delayed indeed, until no more to part
We meet at last within a Mansion fair
Where there are many such, would this impart
A sadness to thy spirit? heart with heart
May commune safely when the Master's art
Hath tuned His perfect instrument! below
We learn not half its sweetness; not for men
Its broken strings are joined; it keeps its flow

186

Of music for the Land where none again
May wring its chords;

Yet even here, I know,
Are seasons calm and glad that antedate
The coming in of happier cycles, where
The human soul, too long left desolate
Shall reckon up its Sabbaths, and repair
Its pleasant things laid waste; upon that Rest
Together we shall enter! we shall share
Its joy above, below,—as God deems best!