As homing bird the prisoning hand releases,
As tide, unyoked, brims up the beach anew,
As needle finds the norm when pressure ceases,
So, love, my resting soul returns to you.
Hours after hours instinctive thoughts are hidden,
Here, there, alert I bend my busy brain,
But when the book is closed, the mind unbidden
Relaxes, like a spring, to you again.
There finds it ease, and peace beyond believing,
A meeting as true mutual spirits make,
With never a gnawing joy nor secret grieving –
Such love perhaps not death Itself shall break.
So should I love my Lord; and so, I pray,
Would rest in Him, though you were taken away.

Poems of Love