At The Last

Where are you--you whose loving breath
Alone can stay my soul from death?
The world's so wide, I seek it through,
Yet--dare I dream to win to you?
Perhaps your dear desired feet
Pass me in this grey muddy street.
Your face, it may be, has its shrine
In that dull house that's next to mine.
But I believe, O Life, O Fate,
That when I call on Death and wait
One moment at the unclosing gate
I shall turn back for one last gaze
Along the trampled, sordid ways,
And in the sunset see at last,
Just as the barred gate holds me fast,
Your face, your face, too late.

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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