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LOOKING BACK.
LET him be God's, not mine, — 'tis better so.
I marred the music of his spirit's lute,
And brushed my hand too rudely through its strings :
And now it lieth mute.
I might have gladdened him, and would not know,
And so there stepped an angel on the way,
And bore him past me, opening mine eyes.
It is too late to-day.
I can but pray for him, ay, still will pray ;
Death is no farther off than life, I wis :
A deeper thrill of joy shall pulse through him,
Ay, even 'mid Heaven's bliss.
