Rampolli - A Year's Diary of an Old Soul
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Who in his chamber sitteth lonely,
And weepeth heavy, bitter tears; To whom in doleful colours, only
Of want and woe, the world appears;
Who of the Past, gulf-like receding,
Would search with questing eyes the core, Down into which a sweet woe, pleading,
Wiles him from all sides evermore--
As if a treasure past believing
Lay there below, for him high-piled, After whose lock, with bosom heaving,
He breathless grasps in longing wild:
He sees the Future, waste and arid,
In hideous length before him stretch; About he roams, alone and harried,
And seeks himself, poor restless wretch!--
I fall upon his bosom, tearful:
I once, like thee, with woe was wan; But I grew well, am strong and cheerful,
And know the eternal rest of man.
Thou too must find the one consoler
Who inly loved, endured, and died-- Even for them that wrought his dolour
With thousand-fold rejoicing died.
He died--and yet, fresh each to-morrow,
His love and him thy heart doth hold; Thou mayst, consoled for every sorrow,
Him in thy arms with ardour fold.
New blood shall from his heart be driven
Through thy dead bones like living wine; And once thy heart to him is given,
Then is his heart for ever thine.
What thou didst lose, he keeps it for thee;
With him thy lost love thou shalt find; And what his hand doth once restore thee,
That hand to thee will changeless bind.