TO ZÜLMA
I.
Sometimes my heart grows faint with longing, dear—
Longing to see thy face, to touch thy hand.
But mountains rise between us; leagues of land
Stretch on and on where mighty lakes lie clear
In the far spaces, and great forests rear
Their sombre crowns on many a lonely strand!
Yet, O my fair child, canst thou understand,
Thou whose dear place was once beside me here,
How yet I dare not pray that thou and I
Again may dwell together as of old?
There is a gate between us, locked and barred,
Over which we may not climb; and standing nigh
Is the white angel Sorrow, who doth hold
The only key that may unlock its ward!
Longing to see thy face, to touch thy hand.
But mountains rise between us; leagues of land
Stretch on and on where mighty lakes lie clear
In the far spaces, and great forests rear
Their sombre crowns on many a lonely strand!
Yet, O my fair child, canst thou understand,
Thou whose dear place was once beside me here,
How yet I dare not pray that thou and I
Again may dwell together as of old?
There is a gate between us, locked and barred,
Over which we may not climb; and standing nigh
Is the white angel Sorrow, who doth hold
The only key that may unlock its ward!
II.
Yet think not I would have it otherwise!
Our God, who knoweth women's hearts, knows best—
And every little bird must build its nest
From whence it soareth, singing, to the skies.
What though the one that thou hast builded lies
Where sinks the sun to its enchanted rest,
If, on each breeze that bloweth east or west,
To thee, on swiftest wing, my spirit flies?
We are not far apart, and ne'er shall be!
Our God, who knoweth women's hearts, knows best—
And every little bird must build its nest
From whence it soareth, singing, to the skies.
What though the one that thou hast builded lies
Where sinks the sun to its enchanted rest,
If, on each breeze that bloweth east or west,
To thee, on swiftest wing, my spirit flies?
We are not far apart, and ne'er shall be!
