Gordon Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

The Unrequitable.


GONE, with the toil of nigh twelve months undone,
Cut from thy grasp by sloth and treachery,
When friendly hands across that sandy sea
To reach thee at thy post had all but won.
Gone when thy hope was high as Egypt's sun,
From sting of failure and all charge set free,
A man no king was great enough to fee—
God's Servant, taking wage of Him alone.

Gordon, we may not give thee so much earth
As might suffice thy bones for resting-place,
But must remain thy debtors in our dearth;
Souls pure as thine are channels of God's grace,
And all our famished lives must grow more worth
When such have dwelt among us for a space.