Люси Ларком (Lucy Larcom)

Love’s Late Remorse

How will it be
When you at last in heaven we see, —
Dear souls, whose footsteps in lost days,
Made musical earth's toil-worn ways,
While we not half the loneliness
That bound you to our side could guess?
Where angels know your footfall, we
Are fain to be.
We never knew —
So heedlessly we walked with you —
The drops we jostled from your cup,
That, spilt, could not be gathered up:
We might have given you foam and glow
From our own beaker's overflow; —
Ah! what we might have been to you,
We never knew!
We might have lent
Such strength, such comfort and content
To you, out of our ample store:
We might have hastened on before
To lift the shadows from your way,
Darkened, ere noon, to twilight's gray;
With earth's cold air love's warm heart-scent
We might have blent.
Dear, wistful eyes,
Ye haunt us with your kind surprise,
Your tender wonder that a heart
Should thus be left alone, apart,
So loving, so misunderstood
By us, in our self-centred mood:
Alas! in vain to you arise
Our longing cries!
Oh, will you wait
For us, beyond the shining gate?
Though lovely gifts behind you left,
We want yourselves: we are bereft.
From your new mansion glorious
Will you lean out to look for us?
Shut is the far-off, shining gate: —
Are we too late?

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