Absence

'Tis told of one whose feet awhile were led Thro' Paradise, that when this earth again Was his with all its unrequited pain, He mourned not for the living splendor fled, But that high memory kept him ever fed! With certitude he somehow should attain The vision beatific, and regain Its music given and its glory shed. So I, when from the heaven of thine embrace I go in exile, grieve not overmuch, Knowing thou waitest, tho I stand afar And hunger for the mercy of thy face, Thy voice's lure, and rapture of thy touch, O thou my morning and mine evening star!