XII
In Vain
I cannot live with you,It would be life,And life is over thereBehind the shelf
The sexton keeps the key to,Putting upOur life, his porcelain,Like a cup
Discarded of the housewife,Quaint or broken;A newer Sevres pleases,Old ones crack.
I could not die with you,For one must waitTo shut the other’s gaze down,—You could not.
And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze,Without my right of frost,Death’s privilege?
Nor could I rise with you,Because your faceWould put out Jesus’,That new grace
Glow plain and foreignOn my homesick eye,Except that you, than heShone closer by.
They’d judge us—how?For you served Heaven, you know,Or sought to;I could not,
Because you saturated sight,And I had no more eyesFor sordid excellenceAs Paradise.
And were you lost, I would be,Though my nameRang loudestOn the heavenly fame.
And were you saved,And I condemned to beWhere you were not,That self were hell to me.
So we must keep apart,You there, I here,With just the door ajarThat oceans are,And prayer,And that pale sustenance,Despair!