John Killick Bathurst

FAR from thy shrine,

With sterile plains of weary days between,

Hope whispers ever from the void, unseen,

Thou still art mine—

When ’mid the stress of life, with thee-ward face,

I make my vows toward thy dwelling-place.

At radiant morn,

As the new day first slants into mine eyes,

Steal thoughts of that glad dawning of surprise

When Love was born:

And in that place where night and morning meet,

I cast my life, a love-gift, at thy feet.

Beats the fierce noon

Of sorrow on my head, while the skies as brass

Roof all the path my daily feet must pass,

Peace cometh soon:

Prone on the sands of absence, lo, I kiss

Thy hands in thought, and find an oasis.

Cometh the night—

I will my carpet of Remembrance spread,

Till dreary space and absence all are sped

Far from my sight,

And down the corridors of silence deep,

Thy white hand beckons me to thee,—and sleep.