 | The high-top sweeting And Other Poems |  |
120
THE CLAY CHERUB.
What is immortal? Dreamers speak of love
Outliving mortal breath,
And conquering fate and circumstance and death;
And wise men preach, and poets sing in rhyme
Of faith and fame which years cannot disprove,
And hope which laughs at time.
And yet the veriest trifles oft outlast
All these, and leave them in the misty past,
Proving how empty is their boast above
A silken shred, a flower, or faded glove.
Outliving mortal breath,
And conquering fate and circumstance and death;
And wise men preach, and poets sing in rhyme
Of faith and fame which years cannot disprove,
And hope which laughs at time.
And yet the veriest trifles oft outlast
All these, and leave them in the misty past,
Proving how empty is their boast above
A silken shred, a flower, or faded glove.
He took a piece of potter's earth one day,—
My friend, remembered still,—
And, with an artist's ready craft and skill,
Fashioned for me a little cherub face.
“Alas!” I said, “why make of brittle clay
A thing of so much grace,
So beautiful and sweet and dainty fair?
Its lines will yield to the effacing air
Their delicate curving, shield it as I may,
And dry and crumble, grain by grain, away.”
My friend, remembered still,—
And, with an artist's ready craft and skill,
Fashioned for me a little cherub face.
“Alas!” I said, “why make of brittle clay
A thing of so much grace,
So beautiful and sweet and dainty fair?
Its lines will yield to the effacing air
Their delicate curving, shield it as I may,
And dry and crumble, grain by grain, away.”
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The brows were bent as in a wondering dream,
Half joy and half surprise;
The gentle lids closed over sleeping eyes;
The tender lips just parted in a smile
So sweet and life-like, it would almost seem
That in a little while
It would awaken, laughing, from its rest;
And quietly across the baby breast,
Which slumber's lightest breathing seemed to thrill,
Two angel wings were folded, soft and still.
Half joy and half surprise;
The gentle lids closed over sleeping eyes;
The tender lips just parted in a smile
So sweet and life-like, it would almost seem
That in a little while
It would awaken, laughing, from its rest;
And quietly across the baby breast,
Which slumber's lightest breathing seemed to thrill,
Two angel wings were folded, soft and still.
He smiled, and touched the rounded cheek of clay,
And gravely said to me:
“This little face you prize so tenderly
Holds in itself no element of change,
No germ of dissolution or decay;
And it would not be strange
If in so kind and loving hands as yours
It lasts for years, and even still endures
When much that you and I, dear child, to-day
Believe immortal, shall have passed away.”
And gravely said to me:
“This little face you prize so tenderly
Holds in itself no element of change,
No germ of dissolution or decay;
And it would not be strange
If in so kind and loving hands as yours
It lasts for years, and even still endures
When much that you and I, dear child, to-day
Believe immortal, shall have passed away.”
How truly did he speak! Death's seal was set
Even then upon his face,
Though love refused to see its fatal trace;
And though the world was fair with light and bloom,
Still in his eyes, where mirth and feeling met,
There lay a shade of doom.
Long since, their earnest depths forgot the light;
But wrapped in happy sleep and visions bright,
Unchanged by time, unshadowed by regret,
The little cherub face is perfect yet.
Even then upon his face,
Though love refused to see its fatal trace;
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Still in his eyes, where mirth and feeling met,
There lay a shade of doom.
Long since, their earnest depths forgot the light;
But wrapped in happy sleep and visions bright,
Unchanged by time, unshadowed by regret,
The little cherub face is perfect yet.
The hand which dowered with life a marble bust,
And caught a marvellous ray
Of beauty in this bit of worthless clay,
That wrought out power and passion from a stone,
Called smiles from cold Carrara's prisoning crust,
By skilful touch alone,
Awakened loveliest dimples in a cheek
Rock-hewn, and made the carved lip almost speak,
Has now, oblivious of its lofty trust,
Forgot its cunning, and returned to dust.
And caught a marvellous ray
Of beauty in this bit of worthless clay,
That wrought out power and passion from a stone,
Called smiles from cold Carrara's prisoning crust,
By skilful touch alone,
Awakened loveliest dimples in a cheek
Rock-hewn, and made the carved lip almost speak,
Has now, oblivious of its lofty trust,
Forgot its cunning, and returned to dust.
In the true heart that loved him, even yet
The wild and frantic grief
Which long rejected solace and relief,
Has only changed to fixed and silent pain;
And every spring-time, when the violet
Wakes to the loving rain,
While the glad birds build, and the new leaves grow,
And the brooks sing, its blossom sweet and low
Keeps vigil by his rest, with blue eye wet,
Like one who waits, and never will forget.
The wild and frantic grief
Which long rejected solace and relief,
Has only changed to fixed and silent pain;
And every spring-time, when the violet
Wakes to the loving rain,
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And the brooks sing, its blossom sweet and low
Keeps vigil by his rest, with blue eye wet,
Like one who waits, and never will forget.
What has it not outlived and put to shame,
Outlasting their decay,
This little fragment of untempered clay?
Youth, love, and all that makes existence dear;
Life's brightest dreams, an artist's dawning fame,
A woman's hope and fear,
A child's sweet life, that promised to atone
For years of toil and woe endured alone,
Faith's strong reliance, friendship's steadiest flame;
And yet the clay-wrought face remains the same!
Outlasting their decay,
This little fragment of untempered clay?
Youth, love, and all that makes existence dear;
Life's brightest dreams, an artist's dawning fame,
A woman's hope and fear,
A child's sweet life, that promised to atone
For years of toil and woe endured alone,
Faith's strong reliance, friendship's steadiest flame;
And yet the clay-wrought face remains the same!
Wherefore it seems these trifles, which we call
Mere nothings of a day,
Last when our soul's best treasures pass away;
Beside the life-time of a book-pressed flower,
Love's fond forever dwindles brief and small,
And fame is for an hour;
Joy's promise fades before a rose's red,
And clay endures when youth and hope are dead;
Shadows outlast our trust, as years befall,
But human sorrow long outlives them all!
Mere nothings of a day,
Last when our soul's best treasures pass away;
Beside the life-time of a book-pressed flower,
Love's fond forever dwindles brief and small,
And fame is for an hour;
Joy's promise fades before a rose's red,
And clay endures when youth and hope are dead;
Shadows outlast our trust, as years befall,
But human sorrow long outlives them all!
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