STILL must the implacable road lie dark and bare Before me, all the turnpike dues being paid And right direction followed, which obeyed Should have led long since unto thy presence? Where, My God, is any house now but despair? Whose is the guilt if still the frost invade The hoped-for Spring, and check the piercing blade Of love? what love, when warmth deserts the air? Deserts?—when all thy fellows thou canst see, O foolish heart, bright with a noble cheer, On all sides round in new perfection drest! Thou couldst not miss them, Lord, therefore not me! Thou art in them, then here, O therefore here! Though still thy hid communion serves me best. |