Spheral Change

In this new shade of Death, the show
Passes me still of form and face;
Some bent, some gazing as they go,
Some swiftly, some at a dull pace,
Not one that speaks in any case.

If only one might speak!--the one
Who never waits till I come near;
But always seated all alone
As listening to the sunken air,
Is gone before I come to her.

O dearest! while we lived and died
A living death in every day,
Some hours we still were side by side,
When where I was you too might stay
And rest and need not go away.

O nearest, furthest! Can there be
At length some hard-earned heart-won home,
Where,--exile changed for sanctuary,--
Our lot may fill indeed its sum,
And you may wait and I may come?