The Footprints

COME to green under-glooms, — and in your hair
Weave nightshade, foxglove red, and rank wolfsbane,
And slumber and forget Him; if in vain
Ye try to slumber off your sorrow there,
Arise once more and openly repair
To busy haunts where men and women sigh,
And if all things but echo back your care,
Cry out aloud, ' There is no God! ' and die.
But if upon a day when all is dark,
Thou, stooping in the public ways, shall mark
Strange luminous footprints as of feet that shine —
Follow them! follow them! O soul bereaven!
God had a Son — He hath pass'd that way to heaven:
Follow, and look upon the Face divine!