The Widower
by
For a season there must be pain–
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.
For a season this pain must endure–
For a little, little while
I shall sigh more often than smile,
Till Time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.
For that season we must be apart,
For a little length of years,
Till my life’s last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.
But I shall not understand–
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, ‘Who but I have the right?’
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.