What will this matter, dear, when you and I
Have left our sad world for some fairer sky?
What will it matter, dear, when, far apart,
We miss the touch of hand and beat of heart;
When one’s at peace, while unto one is given
With lonely feet to walk the hills at even?
What will it matter that one fault more now
Brings clouds upon one eager mortal brow,
That one grace less is given to one poor soul,
When both drink from the last immortal bowl?
For fault and grace, dear love, when we go hence
Will find the same Eternal recompense.