Ella with the Shining Hair

Through many a fragrant cedar grove     A darkened water moans;     And there pale Memory stood with Love     Amongst the moss-green stones.     The shimmering sunlight fell and kissed     The grasstrees golden sheaves;     But we were troubled with a mist     Of music in the leaves.     One passed us, like a sudden gleam;     Her face was deadly fair.     Oh, go, we said, you homeless Dream     Of Ellas shining hair!     We halt, like one with tired wings,     And we would fain forget     That there are tempting, maddening things     Too high to clutch at yet!     Though seven Springs have filled the Wood     With pleasant hints and signs,     Since faltering feet went forth and stood     With Death amongst the pines.     From point to point unwittingly     We wish to clamber still,     Till we have light enough to see     The summits of the hill.     O do not cry, my sister dear,     Said beaming Hope to Love,     Though we have been so troubled here     The Land is calm above;     Beyond the regions of the storm     Well find the golden gates,     Where, all the day, a radiant Form,     Our Ella, sits and waits.     And Memory murmured: She was one     Of Gods own darlings lent;     And Angels wept that she had gone,     And wondered why she went.     I know they came, and talked to her,     Through every garden breeze,     About eternal Hills of Myrrh,     And quiet Jasper Seas.     For her the Earth contained no charms;     All things were strange and wild;     And I believe a Seraphs arms     Caught up the sainted Child.     And Love looked round, and said: Oh, you     That sit by Beulahs streams,     Shake on this thirsty life the dew     Which brings immortal dreams!     Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft     With looks of pitying balm,     And hints of heaven, in whispers soft,     To make our troubles calm.     My Ella with the shining hair,     Behold, these many years,     Weve held up wearied hands in prayer;     And groped about in tears.     But Hope sings on: Beyond the storm     Well find the golden gates     Where, all the day, a radiant Form,     Our Ella, sits and waits.