The Widower

 For a season there must be pain--
 For a little, little space 
 I shall lose the sight of her face,
 Take back the old life again
 While She is at rest in her place. 

 For a season this pain must endure,
 For a little, little while
 I shall sigh more often than smile
 Till time shall work me a cure,
 And the pitiful days beguile.

 For that season we must be apart,
 For a little length of years,
 Till my life's last hour nears,
 And, above the beat of my heart,
 I hear Her voice in my ears.

 But I shall not understand--
 Being set on some later love,
 Shall not know her for whom I strove,
 Till she reach me forth her hand,
 Saying, "Who but I have the right?"
 And out of a troubled night
 Shall draw me safe to the land.

Form: Lyric

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