 | Benoni |  |
vii
[Thou, whom I know not—knew not; whose mere name]
Thou, whom I know not—knew not; whose mere name
Is secret as all wondrous symbols old,
Wherefrom the gnawing and oblivious years
Have eaten out their meanings; whose sweet lips
Wrought not their marvels of deliciousness
On mine; yea, whose pure eyes were but as drops
Of misty light in some far system pendant,
That might have clear'd and centred into suns
Full of new glory, being moved anear;
Whose voice is but the ebbing of a wind
Along the utmost skirts of forest-glens,
That makes a part of silence, 'tis so still;
Whose life—alas! a legend and a dream
Woven of Fancy from thin threads of truth,
Is all thy life to me: If in thy walks,
Creeping and fluttering back to what thou wert,
In some neglected nook thy wondering ear
Should light upon these voices of the Past,—
Know, they are all for thee; all uttered
And mooted to the blabbing pitiless winds
That thou mayst hear: so, leave them not to die—
Take up and store them—no, not in thy heart,
But in some meanest corner at the edge
Of thy wide being; there, the while thy soul
Moves like a planet circled in its sphere,
With a faint zone of loves and memories
That worship from afar, O let them rest,—
Prophetic utterances that shall not pass
Without fulfilment in the latter days
Old heir-looms, waiting as in trustfulness
Among the lurking lumber, till there come
A due return of fashion and of times
To make them precious: gazing on them thus,
Not with wet eyes or sobbing voice, or aught
That shakes the firm foundations of control,
And wrests thee from thy duties,—wait, and nurse
Unseen the mute indulgence of that hope
That cannot be a sin; until what time
Our ancient freedom comes again......
Is secret as all wondrous symbols old,
Wherefrom the gnawing and oblivious years
Have eaten out their meanings; whose sweet lips
Wrought not their marvels of deliciousness
On mine; yea, whose pure eyes were but as drops
Of misty light in some far system pendant,
That might have clear'd and centred into suns
Full of new glory, being moved anear;
Whose voice is but the ebbing of a wind
Along the utmost skirts of forest-glens,
That makes a part of silence, 'tis so still;
Whose life—alas! a legend and a dream
Woven of Fancy from thin threads of truth,
Is all thy life to me: If in thy walks,
Creeping and fluttering back to what thou wert,
In some neglected nook thy wondering ear
Should light upon these voices of the Past,—
viii
And mooted to the blabbing pitiless winds
That thou mayst hear: so, leave them not to die—
Take up and store them—no, not in thy heart,
But in some meanest corner at the edge
Of thy wide being; there, the while thy soul
Moves like a planet circled in its sphere,
With a faint zone of loves and memories
That worship from afar, O let them rest,—
Prophetic utterances that shall not pass
Without fulfilment in the latter days
Old heir-looms, waiting as in trustfulness
Among the lurking lumber, till there come
A due return of fashion and of times
To make them precious: gazing on them thus,
Not with wet eyes or sobbing voice, or aught
That shakes the firm foundations of control,
And wrests thee from thy duties,—wait, and nurse
Unseen the mute indulgence of that hope
That cannot be a sin; until what time
Our ancient freedom comes again......
.....‘No more!’
| Benoni | |