  The days are long and lonely, The weary eve comes on, And the nights are filled with dreaming Of one beloved and gone. I reach out in the darkness And clasp but empty air, For Rutha dear has vanished— I wonder, wonder where. Yet must it be: her nature So lovely, pure, and true; So nearly like the angels, Is she an angel too. The cottage is dismantled Of all that made it bright; Beyond its silent portal No love, nor life, nor light. Where are the hopes I cherished, The joys that once I knew, The dreams, the aspirations? All, all are perished too. From shore to shore I roam— No comfort, no companion, No happiness, no home. Oh could I but enfold her Unto my heart once more, If aught could e'er restore me My darling as before; If God would only tell me— Such myriads above— Why He must needs have taken The one I loved to love; If God would only tell me Why multitudes are left, Unhappy and unlovely, And I am thus bereft; If—O my soul, be silent And some day thou shalt see Through mystery and shadow, And know why it must be. To every cry of anguish From every heart distressed, Can be no other answer Than this—God knoweth best. |
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