Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours

That must be counted ere I see thy face?

How shall I charm the interval that lowers

Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing?—shall I flee away

Into past days, and with some fond pretence

Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God’s great gift of time;

Shall I these mists of memory locked within,

Leave, and forget life’s purposes sublime?

Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

How may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessèd time, and thou art here?

I’ll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told

While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.

For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time, and will therein strive

To follow excellence, and to o’ertake

More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;

So may my love and longing hallowed be,

And thy dear thought an influence divine.