by John Banister Tabb
Come quickly in and close the door,
For none hath entered here before,
The secret chamber set apart
Within the cloister of the heart.
Tread softly! 'T is the Holy Place
Where memory meets face to face
A sacred sorrow, felt of yore,
But sleeping now forevermore.
It cannot die; for nought of pain,
Its fleeting vesture, doth remain:
Behold upon the shrouded eye
The seal of immortality!
Love would not wake it, nor efface
Of anguish one abiding trace,
Since e'en the calm of heaven were less,
Untouched of human tenderness.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston