 | Camera obscura |  |
25
THE SECRET.
“Il faut qu'étant auprès de vous, je suis un secret entre vous
et moi, et un énigme pour tous les autres.”
—Balzac (Seventeenth Century).
“Bird,” I said, “that in Autumn grey
Singest so sweet when the sunlight sped
Lies low on the hill, and the darkening way
Is drifted o'er with the light leaves shed,
Wert thou wounded, for now I see
That little breast of thine is red?
Hath any loved thee? and wert thou fed
On the wine of the berry wild and free?
Hast thou been mated, and wooed, and wed?”
Then sang the Bird: “I sing to thee;
I sing when the Spring's light leaves are shed,
I sing when the Summer day for dead
Lies lapped! of its passing sweet and brief
I sing to thee! of the flower and the leaf
I sing,” sang the Bird. “I sing to thee,
But I tell to none my historie.”
Singest so sweet when the sunlight sped
Lies low on the hill, and the darkening way
Is drifted o'er with the light leaves shed,
Wert thou wounded, for now I see
That little breast of thine is red?
Hath any loved thee? and wert thou fed
On the wine of the berry wild and free?
Hast thou been mated, and wooed, and wed?”
Then sang the Bird: “I sing to thee;
I sing when the Spring's light leaves are shed,
I sing when the Summer day for dead
Lies lapped! of its passing sweet and brief
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I sing,” sang the Bird. “I sing to thee,
But I tell to none my historie.”
“Flower or herb, that with eager quest
For thy perfume rare of leaf and stem
I have sought for east, I have sought for west;
Now that I find thee among the rest,
With flowers that grow near the beaten way,
Thou bloomest, and even, like one of them,
Thou art not sweet, methinks, nor gay.”
Then the Flower said: “Other-where
Seek thou for flowers that are sweet and fair.
I lived through the bitter frost that slew
The sheltered bloom of the orchard's pride;
I lived on the burning wind, I grew
Through the summer drought when the roses died;
I lived,” said the Flower, “I was sweet, not gay,
And my life in its giving passed away;
Dost thou find me shrunken, and sere, and dry?
If I please thee not, thou canst pass me by.
But as thou wert mounting the hill-side steep,
And as thou wert climbing the rock-hewn stair,
Didst thou meet with an odour strange and deep?
I have lived,” said the Flower, “and my soul was there,
It is not mine both to give and keep.”
For thy perfume rare of leaf and stem
I have sought for east, I have sought for west;
Now that I find thee among the rest,
With flowers that grow near the beaten way,
Thou bloomest, and even, like one of them,
Thou art not sweet, methinks, nor gay.”
Then the Flower said: “Other-where
Seek thou for flowers that are sweet and fair.
I lived through the bitter frost that slew
The sheltered bloom of the orchard's pride;
I lived on the burning wind, I grew
“But as thou wast climbing the rocky stair,
Didst thou meet with an odour strange and deep.”
A French writer, describing the flora of the dry upland
heaths, or garriques, says, “These plants never enjoy the
protection of the shade, the freshness of the dew, nor the
richness of a grassy soil. Grises ou jaunes, dures et robustes
comme du bois, elles vivent dans le creux d'une roche au
bord d'une lande pierreuse, ou sur la pente de la colline
ravinée. Brûlée par la sécheresse, elles se flétrissent dès
que l'air a recu leurs émanations, et ne semblent vivre que
pour embaumer le vallon. Leurs parfums sont à peine perceptibles
lorsque on les respire de près.”
Didst thou meet with an odour strange and deep.”
Through the summer drought when the roses died;
I lived,” said the Flower, “I was sweet, not gay,
And my life in its giving passed away;
Dost thou find me shrunken, and sere, and dry?
If I please thee not, thou canst pass me by.
But as thou wert mounting the hill-side steep,
27
Didst thou meet with an odour strange and deep?
I have lived,” said the Flower, “and my soul was there,
It is not mine both to give and keep.”
“Voice,” I said, “that upon my way,
At the close of the twilight dank and chill,
Dost meet me, and then flit away;
Art thou a shade among shadows grey,
Or the voice of one who is living still?
Doth power go with thee, and strength, and will;
What art thou?” Then the Voice said, “A voice
That crieth of things that are yet to be.
If thou hearest me, then abide; for thee
I have a message from God: Rejoice,
I say, or else lament with me:
If thou hearest not, pass on, forbear
And leave me, as I leave thee, free.
To meet thy question is not my care;
I have an errand, but not with thee.”
At the close of the twilight dank and chill,
Dost meet me, and then flit away;
Art thou a shade among shadows grey,
Or the voice of one who is living still?
Doth power go with thee, and strength, and will;
What art thou?” Then the Voice said, “A voice
That crieth of things that are yet to be.
If thou hearest me, then abide; for thee
I have a message from God: Rejoice,
I say, or else lament with me:
If thou hearest not, pass on, forbear
And leave me, as I leave thee, free.
To meet thy question is not my care;
I have an errand, but not with thee.”
| Camera obscura | |