Gerard's Monument And Other Poems. By Emily Pfeiffer: 2nd Ed., Revised and Enlarged |
 |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Gerard's Monument |  |
Two stars that traverse one same sphere,
Never crossing, if alway near;
Two streams through a mountain chasm led,
Flowing unmixed in one same bed;
Two souls that claim to be friend and brother,
Viewless as phantoms, each for the other:
Two men who are living and working together,
Sharing the fair and the foul of the weather,
Meeting at board and joining in prayer,
Passing in passage and halting on stair,
Closely lodged in one woman's heart,—
For ever near, and for ever apart.
Never crossing, if alway near;
Two streams through a mountain chasm led,
Flowing unmixed in one same bed;
Two souls that claim to be friend and brother,
Viewless as phantoms, each for the other:
45
Sharing the fair and the foul of the weather,
Meeting at board and joining in prayer,
Passing in passage and halting on stair,
Closely lodged in one woman's heart,—
For ever near, and for ever apart.
The goldsmith loved to work in the sun,
In the open day, and he worked with a will;
But he loved to laugh when his work was done,
Or he loved to breast a windy hill,
And to spread his thought from its summit hoary,
Over the world and review its story.
The goldsmith's mind was an open book,
And the goldsmith's eye kept a keen out-look,
And he fed his fancy from day to day
While nature and he were together at play.
The crested progress of the wave,
The dog that panting plunges in,
The set of gorget, or turn of glaive,
The dimples that ripple an infant's chin;
The bird that builds, the bird that broods,
And he that shakes with song the woods,
The bee so hot in quest of gain,
That he makes a mart of the lily's fane;
He marked them and he knew their way
So well, that his work was as bold as play.
But, better than all, of a summer eve,
Or by winter fire, he loved to weave
His kindling thought with the thought of one
Who was dearer to him than the world and its sun,—
Than spangled night, or various day,
Than joyous work, or careless play.
In the open day, and he worked with a will;
But he loved to laugh when his work was done,
Or he loved to breast a windy hill,
And to spread his thought from its summit hoary,
Over the world and review its story.
The goldsmith's mind was an open book,
And the goldsmith's eye kept a keen out-look,
And he fed his fancy from day to day
While nature and he were together at play.
The crested progress of the wave,
The dog that panting plunges in,
The set of gorget, or turn of glaive,
The dimples that ripple an infant's chin;
The bird that builds, the bird that broods,
And he that shakes with song the woods,
46
That he makes a mart of the lily's fane;
He marked them and he knew their way
So well, that his work was as bold as play.
But, better than all, of a summer eve,
Or by winter fire, he loved to weave
His kindling thought with the thought of one
Who was dearer to him than the world and its sun,—
Than spangled night, or various day,
Than joyous work, or careless play.
In an inner chamber, still and dusk,
Haunted with shadows, heavy with musk,
Gums and spices, and mold withal,
The flames of a furnace flicker and fall,
Flicker and fade on a wan, keen face,
That comes and goes in the ghostly place.
There Gerard bends to his smelting ores,
Feeds his furnace, and silent pores
Over his problems, or questions the sages,
Whose hopes loom large through the gloom of the ages,
For hints of that secret whose fitful gleam
Had baffled many a long day-dream;
The secret of secrets, whereby the length
Of a mortal's days to a mortal's strength
Should be no more timed, and a man might see
His life's fruit ripe on his own life tree.
There he bends when the dew-beads chill
Spangle the vine on his window-sill;
There he leans when its bronze young spray
Faints and falls in the hot noon-day;
There he droops when the day is done,
And all is told 'twixt the vine and the sun;—
Day or night he sees it all
Through the flames of the furnace that flicker and fall.
Haunted with shadows, heavy with musk,
Gums and spices, and mold withal,
The flames of a furnace flicker and fall,
Flicker and fade on a wan, keen face,
That comes and goes in the ghostly place.
There Gerard bends to his smelting ores,
Feeds his furnace, and silent pores
Over his problems, or questions the sages,
Whose hopes loom large through the gloom of the ages,
For hints of that secret whose fitful gleam
Had baffled many a long day-dream;
47
Of a mortal's days to a mortal's strength
Should be no more timed, and a man might see
His life's fruit ripe on his own life tree.
There he bends when the dew-beads chill
Spangle the vine on his window-sill;
There he leans when its bronze young spray
Faints and falls in the hot noon-day;
There he droops when the day is done,
And all is told 'twixt the vine and the sun;—
Day or night he sees it all
Through the flames of the furnace that flicker and fall.
And many a time, as they sit at meat,
The household, head and hands complete,
And a word or jest will join the rest
For a moment, as beads of a rosary caught
Together and bound by a thread of thought,—
The thread will snap beside his seat.
And many a time would that body spare
Drop fainting in the gloom or glare,
If eyes to see, or ears to hear,
And hands to cherish were not near.
Rarely he tarried on breezy down,
Never he clomb to the windy hill;
Would all the glory on view from its crown,
Could song of bird, or murmur of rill,
Help weakling steps to some bluff of fame
Where the light might brighten a fading name?
The household, head and hands complete,
And a word or jest will join the rest
For a moment, as beads of a rosary caught
Together and bound by a thread of thought,—
The thread will snap beside his seat.
And many a time would that body spare
Drop fainting in the gloom or glare,
48
And hands to cherish were not near.
Rarely he tarried on breezy down,
Never he clomb to the windy hill;
Would all the glory on view from its crown,
Could song of bird, or murmur of rill,
Help weakling steps to some bluff of fame
Where the light might brighten a fading name?
A slight, pale thing, but hard to move,
Was Gerald buried in his groove;
Yet one soft voice still found its way
To soothe and hearten as he lay,—
One smile lit up his gruesome day;—
His sister reached him with her love.,
Was Gerald buried in his groove;
Yet one soft voice still found its way
To soothe and hearten as he lay,—
One smile lit up his gruesome day;—
His sister reached him with her love.,
| Gerard's Monument | |