For a season there must be pain-
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.
For a season this pain must endure,
For a little, little while
I shall sigh more ofen than smile
Till Time shall work me a cure, And the pitiful days beguile.
For that season we must be apart,
For a little length of years,
Till my life's last hours nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.
But I shall not understand-
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, 'Who but I have the right?'
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.

- Rudyard Kipling, The Widower.