Louise Imogen Guiney

On the Same (continued)

Is this the end? Is this the pilgrim’s day
For dread, for dereliction, and for tears?
Rather, from grass and air and many spheres,
In prophecy his spirit sinks away;
And under English eaves, more still than they,
Far-off, incoming, wonderful, he hears
The long-arrested, the believing years
Carry the sea-wall! Shall he, sighing, say:
“Farewell to Faith, for she is dead at best
Who had such beauty”? or, with kisses lain
For witness on her darkened doors, go by
With a new psalm: “O banished light so nigh!
Of them was I, who bore thee and who blest:
Even here remember me when thou shalt reign.”

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