Where will it go to reach thine ears
My father, thou dost wear
Somewhere beyond the stars to-night
Thy crown of silver hair.
Somewhere thou _art_. No wandering ghost
In vast, vague realms of space—
But thine own self, majestic, fair,
In thine appointed place.
By one long look thy soul replied
When last I cried to thee,
As thou wert drifting out of sight
Upon the unknown sea;
And well I know that thou wouldst turn
Even from joys divine,
If but thy listening ears could hear
One faltering word of mine.
Yet, knowing this, I cannot lay
My book upon thy knee,
Saying, “O father, once again
I bring my sheaves to thee!”