It seems a little word to say - FAREWELL--but may it not, when said, Be like the kiss we give the dead, Before they pass the doors for aye?
Who knows if, on some after day, Your lips shall utter in its stead A welcome, and the broken thread Be joined again, the selfsame way?
The word is said, I turn to go, But on the threshold seem to hear A sound as of a passing bell, Tolling monotonous and slow, Which strikes despair upon my ear, And says it is a last farewell.
No gift I bring but worship, and the love Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,
Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure; Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;
To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure, Less fearful of its ending, being sure That they watch over us, where'er we rove.
And though my gift itself have little worth, Yet worth it gains from her to whom `tis given, As a weak flower gets colour from the sun. Or rather, as when angels walk the earth, All things they look on take the look of heaven - For of those blessed angels thou art one.
I had a plant which would not thrive, Although I watered it with care, I could not save the blossoms fair, Nor even keep the leaves alive.