Dora Greenwell (1821–1882)

ALONE, at midnight as he knelt, his spirit was aware

Of somewhat falling in between the silence and the prayer,

A bell’s dull clangour that hath sped so far, it faints and dies

So soon as it hath reached the ear whereto its errand lies;

And as he rose up from his knees, his spirit was aware

Of Somewhat, forceful and unseen, that sought to hold him there;

As of a Form that stood behind, and on his shoulders prest

Both hands to stay his rising up, and Somewhat in his breast,

In accents clearer far than words, spake, “Pray yet longer, pray,

For one that ever prayed for thee, this night hath passed away;

“A soul, that climbing hour by hour the silver-shining stair

That leads to God’s great treasure-house, grew covetous; and there

“Was stored no blessing and no boon, for thee she did not claim,

(So lowly, yet importunate!) and ever with thy name

“She linked—that none in earth or heaven might hinder it or stay—

One Other Name, so strong, that thine hath never missed its way.

“This very night within my arms this gracious soul I bore

Within the Gate, where many a prayer of hers had gone before;

“And where she resteth, evermore one constant song they raise,

Of ‘Holy, holy,’ so that now I know not if she prays;

But for the voice of Praise in Heaven, a voice of Prayer hath gone

From Earth; thy name upriseth now no more; pray on, pray on!”