By George Sterling

"Tis told of one whose feet awhile were led
    Thro' Paradise, that when this earth again
    Was his with all its unrequited pain,
He mourned not for the living splendor fled,
But that high memory kept him ever fed!
    With certitude he somehow should attain
    The vision beatific, and regain
Its music given and its glory shed.

So I, when from the heaven of thine embrace
    I go in exile, grieve not overmuch,
        Knowing thou waitest, tho I stand afar
And hunger for the mercy of thy face,
    Thy voice's lure, and rapture of thy touch,
        O thou my morning and mine evening star!

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