IN DIE OBITUS
In God's Presence stands the soul,
And there breaks on it the Whole—
Lo, a vision that upbraids
Of a face in festival!
Lo, a vision to appal
As from the desire it fades!
Shut, imprisoned very far,
As the Afric people are
From communicating things,
Now the soul imprisoned is;
And it fevers for its bliss
From a solitude that stings.
Domine, there is no sound
Passes that impoverished ground—
Breathing of no kine hard by.
Lord, but there must be a breath!
From the earth that travaileth
Riseth up a bitter cry—
Breathing of no kine hard by
Where the patient spirits lie;
But our prayers that do not cease,
But the sacrifice allowed,
But the thurible in cloud
Riseth to them for their peace.
