[Illustration: O]
On food in which my Lord doth so abound,
Mourning and tears, I nourish my tired heart;
And often I grow faint and often start,
Musing how that this wound is most profound.
She comes, whose like the age has never found;
Soft splendours from her star-bound tresses dart;
She sits, as though we never more must part,
Gently upon the bed to which I’m bound:
Laying the hands which I so much desired
Upon my eyes, and speaking words, a tide
Of sweetness, things no human lips have said.
“What use” she says “in knowing, if you grow tired?
Do not cry any more. Have you not cried
Enough for me? You see I am not dead.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]