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One last long look upon thy face,
My year of grace!
O sweet and strange! what vision lies
Half hidden under curtained eyes?
O piteous seeker, long denied,
Art thou already satisfied?
Thy smile is filling all the place,
My year of grace!


Instead of thorns, upon thy brow
White roses now--
And the poor pilgrim robe she wore
Grows white and shining, more and more;
And folded hands upon the breast--
Poor hands that never were at rest--
Hold lilies pure as peace, and bright
With mystic light.


I kneel beside the still sweet face,
My year of grace!
O never with such tender tears
I said goodbye to other years.
She brought me bitterness and balm,
And agony whose heart was calm;
She led me through the dark to see
Thy greater light, eternity!
And in the fullness of her rest
I too am blest.


Once more before I turn away,
I kneel and pray,
God give me in the years to be,
No less than He has sent by thee.
No meaner joy than that rich wine
Which pain hath pressed for feasts divine;
No lower rest than that which lies
In labor, search and sacrifice;
No lesser triumph than the faith
Of life in death.