Arthur Christopher Benson (1862–1925)

RETURN, sad sister, Faith;

Dim, unsubstantial wraith!

Return, thy votary saith

He needs thee now:

Thou wert serenely fair!

But some diviner air

Gleams on thy silver’d hair,

And crowns thy brow;

Thou wilt return, and I

Shall rather sing than sigh,

In that great company

Of souls forlorn:

One with all hearts that break

For some belovèd’s sake,

The hopeless hearts, that ache

And dare not mourn.

Wherefore, since pain and pride

Must sleep unsatisfied,—

Because Thy heart is wide,

And dim our ken,—

To that vast prayer that rolls

Beyond the frozen poles,

With all desirous souls

I cry, Amen.