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.