 | Sonnets |  |
46
THE “STING OF DEATH.”
O THOU whom men affirm we cannot know,
It may be we may never see Thee nearer
Than “in the clouds,” nor ever trace Thee clearer
Than in that garment which, howe'er aglow
With love divine, is still a changing show,
A little shadowing forth, and more concealing,
A glory which, in uttermost revealing,
Might strike us dead with one supreme life-blow.
It may be we may never see Thee nearer
Than “in the clouds,” nor ever trace Thee clearer
Than in that garment which, howe'er aglow
With love divine, is still a changing show,
A little shadowing forth, and more concealing,
A glory which, in uttermost revealing,
Might strike us dead with one supreme life-blow.
We may not reach Thee through the void immense
Measured by suns, or prove Thee anywhere,
But hungry eyes that hunt the wilds above
For one lost face, still drop despairing thence
To find Thee in the heart—life's ravished lair—
Else were the “sting of death” not sin, but love!
Measured by suns, or prove Thee anywhere,
But hungry eyes that hunt the wilds above
For one lost face, still drop despairing thence
To find Thee in the heart—life's ravished lair—
Else were the “sting of death” not sin, but love!
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