At the End

Time was when Love's dear ways I used to know—
That time's at end, and Love has passed me by:
Be merciful, dear God, and let me die—
How can I lift my head from this last blow?

I cannot bear this life whence Faith has fled—
This jostling world in which I walk alone—
Where through long, lonesome nights old memories moan,
With human voices, that the dead is dead.

I cannot bear to meet the day's cold eyes—
The lonesome nights are bitter with my tears—
Shuddering I face the empty hideous years,
Sure that no trumpet's call will bid my dead arise.

Since Love's at end, be merciful, oh God!. . . .
I ask no new-born hope, but only this,—
That I may die as died that vanished bliss,
And hide my fruitless pain 'neath some green sod.

Yet there—if the strong soul in me live on—
How deep soe'er the grave, what hope of rest?
Still shall I be discrowned and dispossest,
And find new tortures with new life begun.

The Heavens are deaf! No answer comes to prayer—
I face the cold scorn of the risen day—
Since Love that was my life has turned away,
And left me for companion my Despair.