Deep, Love, yea, very deep.
And in the dark exiled,
I have no sense of light but still to creep
And know the breast, but not the eyes. Thy child
Saw ne’er his mother near, nor if she smiled;
But only feels her weep.
Yet clouds and branches green
There be aloft, somewhere,
And winds, and angel birds that build between,
As I believe–and I will not despair;
For faith is evidence of things not seen.
Love! if I could be there!
I will be patient, dear.
Perchance some part of me
Puts forth aloft and feels the rushing year
And shades the bird, and is that happy tree
Then were it strength to serve and not appear,
And bliss, though blind, to be.