A Last Word

Where will it go to reach thine ears
My father, thou dost wear
Somewhere beyond the stars to-night
Thy crown of silver hair.

Somewhere thou art. No wandering ghost
In vast, vague realms of space—
But thine own self, majestic, fair,
In thine appointed place.

By one long look thy soul replied
When last I cried to thee,
As thou wert drifting out of sight
Upon the unknown sea;

And well I know that thou wouldst turn
Even from joys divine,
If but thy listening ears could hear
One faltering word of mine.

Yet, knowing this, I cannot lay
My book upon thy knee,
Saying, “O father, once again
I bring my sheaves to thee!”