Songs of the Spirit

Should be a resting-place until the night Broke, and I met my God, and stood within His sight. Only my brain grows feebler with the toil, And clearer runs the river I forsook ; Now in clear pools its myriad fountains boil, Now there runs singing to its breast a brook ; Now it flows gently to a little nook Where I once rested—Ah ! I clench my hand And turn away with yet undaunted look, Setting my face toward the distant land That must lie somewhere far beyond this world of sand. About me are the bones of many men Who turned to God their rapt adoring eyes, And cast away the love within their ken For this vague treasure-house beyond the skies— Whither I turn, like a dumb beast that dies, A wistful look, and breathe a dumb complaint. Lo ! they have cast away the mask of lies 48