THE WIDOWER
Reading edition
For a season there must be pain— For a little, little space I shall lose the sight of her face, Take back the old life again While She is at rest in her place.
For a season this pain must endure— For a little, little while I shall sigh more often than smile, Till Time shall work me a cure, And the pitiful days beguile.
For that season we must be apart, For a little length of years, Till my life's last hour nears, And, above the beat of my heart, I hear Her voice in my ears.
But I shall not understand— Being set on some later love, Shall not know her for whom I strove, Till she reach me forth her hand, Saying, 'Who but I have the right?' And out of a troubled night Shall draw me safe to the land.