Like storm-winds hushed by sudden mountain height
Our rush of living paused awhile with thee
To learn anew the splendours that will be
Whirled cloud-wise round us, when our spirits’ flight
Hath won the glory of the perfect light
Perpetual, so clear that we can see
What ghastly horror yawns eternally
What blackness of the lake of burning night.
Thou chorister of God, whose prophet art
Hath painted Heaven and Hell for us to hear,
Thou must await the Healing Angel’s kiss
To still the fervent beating of thine heart
Beneath the purple of thy silent bier
Before thou hearest music like to this.