We dead, full-blind by shadow-glare,
do grope in darkened corridors at length;
and, finding vestiges of life — drawn there
if we but will it — enter quick, with strength;
whereon, in entering the portal’s frame,
a splendid burst of glory blinds our eyes:
with ev’ry sense all overwhelmed, a flame
of blessed heaven’s fire makes Darkened wise.
Five decades on, our face illumined; warm,
we stretch our hands on high, like incense-cloud,
and give our spirit up to that great swarm
of angels — there to greet the Humbled Proud.
When we awake, dear ones, our sight will dim;
for, in the All-Encompassing, the Sheen
of God — unknown and known — filled to the brim,
our minds shall break, unless we slowly glean.
And we – filled all-in-all — shall have to shade
our eyes, for we shall be as He is now:
a countenance which bathes in glory’s glade,
by cooling water, under gentle bough.
I think we shall, my love, be dark again;
for as we enter truth (from gloom to light),
God’s full infinity outshines the reign
of our small Sun and its dull, mortal white.
So luminous will be the darkness, there;
so bright the night; so withered shall the plumes
be; none shall know the place, until the snare
of Love is shown: our fragrant, empty tombs.