Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Widower
F
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.
For a little, little while
I shall sigh more often than smile
Till Time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.
For a little length of years,
Till my life’s last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, “Who but I have the right?”
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.