 | The book of the dead |  |
178
[LXXXIX. They tell me thou art far away]
They tell me thou art far away,
That all my cries to thee are vain,
That I but rave above thy clay;
Thou canst not hear my voice complain;
That all my cries to thee are vain,
That I but rave above thy clay;
Thou canst not hear my voice complain;
That heaven, in mercy to the dead,
This cloudy cope o'er earth hath thrown;
Else were the blesséd spirits fed
On sorrows keener than our own.
This cloudy cope o'er earth hath thrown;
Else were the blesséd spirits fed
On sorrows keener than our own.
It may be so. I cast about
For faith; but never find its seeds
In men who dole God's mercies out
According to their narrow creeds.
For faith; but never find its seeds
In men who dole God's mercies out
According to their narrow creeds.
No man e'er saw a spirit's wing
Outspread before his mortal eyes;
But is man's sense the only thing
On which his wiser soul relies?
Outspread before his mortal eyes;
But is man's sense the only thing
On which his wiser soul relies?
179
Love's vision is a sense divine:
I trust its truth, when I avow
That, standing face to face with mine,
A spirit fronts my spirit now.
I trust its truth, when I avow
That, standing face to face with mine,
A spirit fronts my spirit now.
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