Death

I close my eyes and see the inward things:
The strange averted spectre of my soul
Is sitting undivulged, angelic, whole,
Beside the dim internal flood that brings
Mysterious thought or dreams or murmurings,
From the immense Unknown: beneath him roll
The urging formless waves beyond control
And darkened by the vague foreshadowings
As heretofore; yea, for He hath not stirred.
Too weak was that my life, too poor each word
To lure my soul from all it waiteth for:
—I am with God who holds His purpose still
And maketh and remaketh evermore;
I am with God and waiting for His will.