Poetry Archives

I am pale with sick desire,
  For my heart is far away
From this world’s fitful fire
  And this world’s waning day;
In a dream it overleaps
  A world of tedious ills
To where the sunshine sleeps
  On the everlasting hills.—
  Say the Saints: There Angels ease us
    Glorified and white.
  They say: We rest in Jesus,
    Where is not day or night.

My soul saith: I have sought
  For a home that is not gained,
I have spent yet nothing bought,
  Have laboured but not attained;
My pride strove to mount and grow,
  And hath but dwindled down;
My love sought love, and lo!
  Hath not attained its crown.—
  Say the Saints: Fresh souls increase us,
    None languish or recede.
  They say: We love our Jesus,
    And He loves us indeed.

I cannot rise above,
  I cannot rest beneath,
I cannot find out love,
  Or escape from death;
Dear hopes and joys gone by
  Still mock me with a name;
My best beloved die,
  And I cannot die with them.—
  Say the Saints: No deaths decrease us,
    Where our rest is glorious.
  They say: We live in Jesus,
    Who once died for us.

O my soul, she beats her wings
  And pants to fly away
Up to immortal things
  In the heavenly day:
Yet she flags and almost faints;
  Can such be meant for me?—
Come and see, say the Saints.
  Saith Jesus: Come and see.
  Say the Saints: His pleasures please us
    Before God and the Lamb.
  Come and taste My sweets, saith Jesus:
    Be with Me where I am.