Philip Bourke Marston (1850–1887)

IT must have been for one of us, my own,

To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread.

Had not my tears upon thy face been shed,

Thy tears had dropped on mine; if I alone

Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known

My loneliness; and did my feet not tread

This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled

For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan:

And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain,

To think of thine eternity of sleep;

To know thine eyes are tearless though mine weep:

And when this cup’s last bitterness I drain,

One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep,—

Thou hadst the peace and I the undying pain.