When you have passed, and earth, grown dim behind you, Lies far upon the outworn verge of time, When my hand, searching, shall no longer find you In any clime;
If I but dream your step, by hill or hollow, Has left some echo falling on the wind, I will arise and gird myself and follow Though I be blind.
Or if, clear-sighted, I may but discover That, in the dew at dawn, your footsteps lie, Where, through long fields, the whistling of the plover Comes like a sigh;
And, if they lead me down to Death’s black river, And, by the rocks, I hear the whirlpools spin, Though heart and soul may faint and body quiver I will wade in.
O heart! beyond the tumult of the crossing, If there should be no sign, nor any trace, Only strange winds upon the grasses tossing And the wide space,
Only eternity, with worlds to wander, A soul among the unknown souls of men, And, O my heart, no voice, no footstep yonder, What then? What then?
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