So many mansions in our Father's house,
So many paths that lead out onward There,
Perchance when first from slumber we arouse
We must for longer journeyings prepare.
I do recall a time you went before
To build a home on earth for me one day:
And when you passed out through the open door
I did not try to hinder or delay.
But I remember how your message
Sped over space and made the dull hours glow.
Is there no way to solace me in this
Increasing loneliness that hurts me so
This silence utter, awful, and profound
Which bruises more than any crash of sound?
Sonnets of sorrow and triumph. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
New York: George H. Doran, 1918.
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