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Left dim and void when Hope's own sun
Dare not shine—
In place of all and every one,
You divine!
I know the splendour that you were—
—You shall be;
I see that nothing is so fair
As you there;
I know that you—the thing I crave—
Men shall see
Again, when I am in the grave,
—After me.
O, whose shall be the barren years?
Whose the tears?
God, who of all this world of ours
Gathers flowers
—Taketh and maketh heaven, and faileth
Not at all,
Maketh a heaven that prevaileth
Out of all—
