The Widower

For a season there must be pain-- For a little, little space I shall lose the sight of her face, Take back the old life again While She is at rest in her place. For a season this pain must endure, For a little, little while I shall sigh more often than smile Till time shall work me a cure, And the pitiful days beguile. For that season we must be apart, For a little length of years, Till my life's last hour nears, And, above the beat of my heart, I hear Her voice in my ears. But I shall not understand-- Being set on some later love, Shall not know her for whom I strove, Till she reach me forth her hand, Saying, "Who but I have the right?" And out of a troubled night Shall draw me safe to the land.