What can I do for thee, beloved,
⁠Whose feet so little while ago
⁠Trod the same wayside dust with mine,
And now up paths I do not know
⁠Speed, without sound or sign?

What can I do? The perfect life
⁠All fresh and fair and beautiful
⁠Has opened its wide arms to thee;
Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;
⁠Nothing remains for me.

I used to do so many things:
⁠Love thee and chide thee and caress;
⁠Brush little straws from off thy way,
Tempering with my poor tenderness
⁠The heat of thy short day.

Not much, but very sweet to give;
⁠And it is grief of griefs to bear
That all these ministries are o'er,
⁠And thou, so happy, love, elsewhere,
⁠Dost need me never more.

And I can do for thee but this:
⁠(Working on blindly, knowing not
⁠If I may give thee pleasure so;)
Out of my own dull, shadowed lot
⁠I can arise, and go

To sadder lives and darker homes,
⁠A messenger, dear heart, from thee
⁠Who wast on earth a comforter;
And say to those who welcome me,
⁠I am sent forth by her:

Feeling the while how good it is
⁠To do thy errands thus, and think
⁠It may be, in the blue, far space,
Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,
⁠A smile upon thy face.

And when the day's work ends with day,
⁠And star-eyed evening, stealing in,
⁠Waves her cool hand to flying noon,
And restless, surging thoughts begin,
⁠Like sad bells out of tune,

I'll pray, "Dear Lord, to whose great love
⁠Nor bound nor limit-line is set,
⁠Give to my darling, I implore,
Some new, sweet joy, not tasted yet,
⁠For I can give no more."

And, with the words my thoughts shall climb
⁠With following feet the heavenly stair
⁠Up which thy steps so lately sped,
And seeing thee so happy there,
⁠Come back half comforted.