He who forsakes to know each grain,
That sobs in fonts with gushing force,
Will not produce the Holy name
Which touches him and swerves its course.
And we alone shall thoughts express –
So close were we to her who left,
To her whom God's delight caressed –
When life and love from her were cleft.
The emptiness of our remove,
Dark hours surround in hollow fence,
Becomes but shells in which a fugue
Drones on. And yet we hardly sense
How in unmeasured time's clear lens
Pipe organs hum, built to be soft,
Cantatas come, an angel bends
To sudden sounds he knew too oft.