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39
PROSPERITY
A modern ballad
I
Wife, though the board between us gleamsWith glass and silver cell;
And though in splendid silence stands
Each liveried sentinel;
II
Though heavily the table glows,With many a monstrous bloom,
And all of comfort and of cheer
Forbids the human gloom;
III
There is a gulph between us fixt,Our souls can never cross,
Nor you to me, nor I to you,
Yet ours no tragic loss.
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IV
No doubt, or soiléd faith hath raisedThe irremeable sea,
That sunders with a silent surge
The shores of you and me.
V
No festering secret such as eatsInto an olden love,
No white confession in moonlight
This separation wove.
VI
No glamour in a slow decline,Or magic dead with days,
Nor passion into friendship fled,
Nor discontinued praise.
VII
True is it that no child was bornTo bind us with bright eyes;
Or with its babble draw us close,
Its chuckle at the skies.
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VIII
Yet others closer-knit have lived,Joined by a yearning dumb;
Though unconfessed, how deep the wish
Burned, and was never numb.
IX
O smooth and rich and still our life,And oiled in every wheel;
Anticipating every care
Noiseless the servants steal.
X
You love your music, I my book;By some tremendous chord,
Your soul is shaken in your stall,
And with you is the Lord.
XI
A moment is your craving fed,Unspoiled by human speech;
You leave the holy place; with all
Your soul beyond my reach.
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XII
Then should I meet you on the stair,You tremble as with sin;
No murderess issued from the bed
Could seem more dark within.
XIII
In deepest courtesy we pass;Yet never a word is said;
As two ships without hail by night
Pass when the moon is dead.
XIV
Decorous and slow each seventh dayWe to the church proceed
Yet what have we to be forgiven,
What absolution need?
XV
Our custom good; the vergers flyLike salesmen in a shop,
In case the hassocks are too few,
Or we a book should drop.
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XVI
So hour by hour, and day by day,From placid week to week,
Existence keeps its ordered path,
Arranged each thing we seek.
XVII
Yet why, O wife, do you and IScarce dare to speak or meet?
What is the trouble twixt us two?
A severance so complete?
XVIII
Wife, there hath dripped between our soulsA dreary rain of days;
Better mistake, or quarrel fierce,
Better some spark or blaze!
XIX
Softness hath worn our love away;And smoothness passion slain;
The dreadful gliding of a life,
Unprivileged by pain.
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XX
O let us tear us from this ease,And wheresoever hurled,
Into the battle let us rush,
And grapple with the world.
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