He Does Not Come

He does not come, although I pray
From sombre eve to morning grey;
Either my voice he cannot hear
In that untroubled happier sphere,
Or cannot force to me his way.
Ah, they but mock us when they say,
The dead revisit realms of day,
Or ever to our sight appear, —
He does not come!
Yet eager was he to obey
What on his heart I pleased to lay;
And if he heard, he would stand here
Before me in the moonlight clear,
Though only for an hour his stay, —
He does not come!