That night destroyed me like an avalanche; One night turned all my summer back to snow: Next morning not a bird upon my branch, Not a lamb woke below,-- No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing; No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn, No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wing And fled before that dawn. Azure and sun were starved from heaven above, No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar: O love, I knew that I should meet my love, Should find my love no more. "My love no more," I muttered, stunned with pain: I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand, Till something whispered: "You shall meet again, Meet in a distant land." Then with a cry like famine I arose, I lit my candle, searched from room to room, Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze Swept through the blank of gloom. I searched day after day, night after night; Scant change there came to me of night or day: "No more," I wailed, "no more"; and trimmed my light, And gnashed, but did not pray, Until my heart broke and my spirit broke: Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell, And moaned: "It is enough: withhold the stroke. Farewell, O love, farewell." Then life swooned from me. And I heard the song Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me: One cried: "Our sister, she hath suffered long."-- One answered: "Make her see."-- One cried: "O blessed she who no more pain, Who no more disappointment shall receive."-- One answered: "Not so: she must live again; Strengthen thou her to live." So, while I lay entranced, a curtain seemed To shrivel with crackling from before my face, Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed And showed a certain place. I saw a vision of a woman, where Night and new morning strive for domination; Incomparably pale, and almost fair, And sad beyond expression. Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem, Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender, Her figure charmed me like a windy stem Quivering and drooped and slender. I stood upon the outer barren ground, She stood on inner ground that budded flowers; While circling in their never-slackening round Danced by the mystic hours. But every flower was lifted on a thorn, And every thorn shot upright from its sands To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn With cruel clapping hands. She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength Was strung up until daybreak of delight: She measured measureless sorrow toward its length, And breadth, and depth, and height. Then marked I how a chain sustained her form, A chain of living links not made nor riven: It stretched sheer up through lightning, wind, and storm, And anchored fast in heaven.