Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/177

A Heavenly Presence; while we broke our bread
With bitter herbs, the words were not our own
That then we spoke, and we were comforted.

For there is concentration in strong pain
That draws the soul together; it can hold
Its breath beneath the waves, and like a bold
Strong diver, desperate will snatch and gain
What calmer moments fail of. One of old
Spake, looking on his judges, "Soon I die;
So gather up my words that are not vain,—
The lip of Death turns speech to prophecy."
So hath the parting hour its agony
Of inspiration:

Of inspiration: All our path with dew
Was drenched that autumn morning; like a day
Begun too soon, our Life before us lay
In early chillness,—hard to live it through
Without each other! slow our footsteps drew,
And slower, to our bourne, because they knew
They measured off the moments we must spend
Together; we were silent—friend to friend
Was near as yet; at last thou spakest low
My name, and whispered, "Bless me ere I go!"
Oh, then I sadly thought, but did not speak:
How may I bless thee, I, oft proved so weak,
So poor in blessing that I can but love,
Nor even bless through loving? I will seek
For that I cannot give. "May One above,