What can I do for thee, beloved,
⁠Whose feet so little while ago
⁠Trod the same wayside dust with mine,
And now up paths I do not know
⁠Speed, without sound or sign?

What can I do? The perfect life
⁠All fresh and fair and beautiful
⁠Has opened its wide arms to thee;
Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;
⁠Nothing remains for me.

I used to do so many things:
⁠Love thee and chide thee and caress;
⁠Brush little straws from off thy way,
Tempering with my poor tenderness
⁠The heat of thy short day.

Not much, but very sweet to give;
⁠And it is grief of griefs to bear
That all these ministries are o'er,
⁠And thou, so happy, love, elsewhere,
⁠Dost need me never more.

And I can do for thee but this:
⁠(Working on blindly, knowing not
⁠If I may give thee pleasure so;)
Out of my own dull, shadowed lot
⁠I can arise, and go

To sadder lives and darker homes,
⁠A messenger, dear heart, from thee
⁠Who wast on earth a comforter;
And say to those who welcome me,
⁠I am sent forth by her:

Feeling the while how good it is
⁠To do thy errands thus, and think
⁠It may be, in the blue, far space,
Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,
⁠A smile upon thy face.

And when the day's work ends with day,
⁠And star-eyed evening, stealing in,
⁠Waves her cool hand to flying noon,
And restless, surging thoughts begin,
⁠Like sad bells out of tune,

I'll pray, "Dear Lord, to whose great love
⁠Nor bound nor limit-line is set,
⁠Give to my darling, I implore,
Some new, sweet joy, not tasted yet,
⁠For I can give no more."

And, with the words my thoughts shall climb
⁠With following feet the heavenly stair
⁠Up which thy steps so lately sped,
And seeing thee so happy there,
⁠Come back half comforted.

Half-Greek adown the Highland glen
⁠And singing to the open sky,
I passed beyond the ways of men
⁠And found my vale in Arcady.

The bees were drowsy on the slope,
⁠The air was wondrous sweet and still,
And all my heart beat high with hope
⁠Of marvels on the Grecian hill.

The light cloak from my shoulders flew,
⁠My bare brown limbs were light and free;
The lark whose rapture thrilled me through
⁠Was but a singing bird to me:

For I was Greek in Hellas' prime
⁠And singing to the clear bright air,
And Grecian bees were in the thyme
⁠And the lost charm in all things fair.

Hills beyond hills from blue to grey
⁠Faint to the misty Highland sky,
But I have been an hour away
⁠In my own vale of Arcady.

From tree to tree the whisper creeps,
⁠"Look, sister, at the wayward man!
His are the eyes of one who sleeps
⁠Within the vale Arcadian."

"Hush, hush!" the pine-tree sighs, "and look,"
⁠The lav'rock peeps from heather sweet,
And headlong streams the Highland brook
⁠To break in laughter at my feet.

Yes, grieve! it can be no offence to Him
⁠Who made us sensitive our loss to know;
The hand that takes the cup filled to the brim
⁠May well with trembling make it overflow.

Who sends us sorrow means it should be felt;
⁠Who gave us tears would surely have them shed;
And metal that the "furnace" doth not melt,
⁠May yet be hardened all the more instead.

Where love abounded will the grief abound?
⁠To check our grief is but to chide our love;
With withered leaves the more bestrewed the ground,
⁠The fuller that the rose hath bloomed above!

Yes, grieve! 'tis nature's —- that is, God's — behest,
⁠If what is nature called is will divine:
Who fain would grieve not cannot know how blest
⁠It is to sorrow, and yet not repine.