 | My Lyrical Life |  |
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A POET'S LOVE-LETTER.
You ask me, Friend, to tell you of my Wife!
And on what stair or landing-place of life
I met, as 'twere, God's Angel coming down,
Or mine ascending, for her marriage crown.
And on what stair or landing-place of life
I met, as 'twere, God's Angel coming down,
Or mine ascending, for her marriage crown.
I say you sooth, however strange it seem,
The first time that I saw her was in dream:
A vision of the night did clearly glass
Her living lineaments. I saw her pass
Smiling, as those may smile who feel they hold
At heart safe-hidden, secret fold on fold,
The sweetest love that ever was untold.
And as it went the Vision flashed on me
A moment's look; a lifetime's memory.
But little could I dream that this should prove
The whole wide world's one lady of my love.
I had never seen that face or form, and yet
I knew them both by daylight when we met.
The first time that I saw her was in dream:
A vision of the night did clearly glass
Her living lineaments. I saw her pass
Smiling, as those may smile who feel they hold
At heart safe-hidden, secret fold on fold,
The sweetest love that ever was untold.
And as it went the Vision flashed on me
A moment's look; a lifetime's memory.
But little could I dream that this should prove
The whole wide world's one lady of my love.
I had never seen that face or form, and yet
I knew them both by daylight when we met.
Blind World! to pass, and pass my darling by,
My lily of the vale, where she did lie
Sheathed in her own green leaves, and never see
The flower hid-in-waiting there for me,
With cloudy fragrance all about her curled;
And yet my blessings on thee, O blind World!
It is so sweet to find with one's own eyes,
Led by divine good-hap, to her surprise,
Our Perdita, our Princess in disguise!
The eye that finds must bring the power to see;
(Says Goëthe's doctrine, comforting to me!)
And now she's found, the world would give me much
Could I but tell it of another such.
My lily of the vale, where she did lie
Sheathed in her own green leaves, and never see
The flower hid-in-waiting there for me,
With cloudy fragrance all about her curled;
And yet my blessings on thee, O blind World!
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Led by divine good-hap, to her surprise,
Our Perdita, our Princess in disguise!
The eye that finds must bring the power to see;
(Says Goëthe's doctrine, comforting to me!)
And now she's found, the world would give me much
Could I but tell it of another such.
Is she an Angel?
Let us not forget,
My friend, that we are scarcely Angels yet.
At least my modest soul would not be pledged
To call itself an Angel fully fledged:
Flesh is so frail, nor am I very sure
Of being, in spirit, altogether pure!
Snags of old broken sins torment me still
With pains that Death itself will hardly kill.
If not an Angel, let the truth be told,
I have not grasped the glitter—missed the Gold.
And lucky is the man who gets the gold,
Refined and fitted for the marriage mould!
Still happier who can keep it pure to bear
The final features of immortal wear.
She is of Angel-stuff; but I'm afraid
The Angels are not given us ready-made:
In other worlds, this Wife of mine may be
The perfect public Angel all may see;
At present she's a private one for me—
My household deity of Common Things,
That into lowly ways a beauty brings,
Just as the grass comes creeping, making bright
And blessèd, with its ripples of delight
And quiet smiles, all pathways dim and bare.
Is she a Beauty?
My friend, that we are scarcely Angels yet.
At least my modest soul would not be pledged
To call itself an Angel fully fledged:
Flesh is so frail, nor am I very sure
Of being, in spirit, altogether pure!
Snags of old broken sins torment me still
With pains that Death itself will hardly kill.
If not an Angel, let the truth be told,
I have not grasped the glitter—missed the Gold.
And lucky is the man who gets the gold,
Refined and fitted for the marriage mould!
Still happier who can keep it pure to bear
The final features of immortal wear.
She is of Angel-stuff; but I'm afraid
The Angels are not given us ready-made:
In other worlds, this Wife of mine may be
The perfect public Angel all may see;
At present she's a private one for me—
My household deity of Common Things,
That into lowly ways a beauty brings,
Just as the grass comes creeping, making bright
And blessèd, with its ripples of delight
And quiet smiles, all pathways dim and bare.
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Well, I will not swear
A thousand beauties with her beauty blend;
A thousand graces on her Grace attend;
Or that she is so pitilessly fair
Each passer-by must turn, or stop, or stare,
And he on whom she looks feels instantly
As one that springs from dust to deity.
Nor can I sing of outer symbols now—
The swan-white stately neck; the snow-white brow;
The lip's live rose; the head superbly crowned;
Eyes, that when fathomed, farthest heaven is found!
I chose for worth, not show, nor chose for them
Who want the casket richer than the gem.
A thousand beauties with her beauty blend;
A thousand graces on her Grace attend;
Or that she is so pitilessly fair
Each passer-by must turn, or stop, or stare,
And he on whom she looks feels instantly
As one that springs from dust to deity.
Nor can I sing of outer symbols now—
The swan-white stately neck; the snow-white brow;
The lip's live rose; the head superbly crowned;
Eyes, that when fathomed, farthest heaven is found!
I chose for worth, not show, nor chose for them
Who want the casket richer than the gem.
That Wife is poor, whate'er her dower may be,
Who hath no beauty save what all may see:
No mystery of the human and divine;
No other face to unveil within the shrine,
Up-lighted only for one worshipper,
And to one love alone familiar:
No veil to lift from her familiar face
Daily, and show the unfamiliar grace.
Eyes shine for others, but divinely dim
And dewy do they grow alone for him!
And her dear face transfigured he doth find
All mirror to the marvel in his mind!
The beauty worn by Bird and Butterfly
Lives on the outside, lustrous to the eye:
But still as nobler grow hue, form, and face,
More inward is shy Beauty's dwelling-place.
And there's a beauty fashioned in the mould
Transmitted from the Beautiful of old,
That from some family-face its best doth win:
But my love's dawneth daily from within;
The loveliness of love made visible,
To feature which the sculptor Form is dull:
Not the mere charms of cheek, or chin, or lip,
That vanish on a week's acquaintanceship;
But that crown-beauty which we cannot clasp,
The beauty that eludes Death's own grave-grasp.
Who hath no beauty save what all may see:
No mystery of the human and divine;
No other face to unveil within the shrine,
Up-lighted only for one worshipper,
And to one love alone familiar:
No veil to lift from her familiar face
Daily, and show the unfamiliar grace.
Eyes shine for others, but divinely dim
And dewy do they grow alone for him!
And her dear face transfigured he doth find
All mirror to the marvel in his mind!
The beauty worn by Bird and Butterfly
Lives on the outside, lustrous to the eye:
But still as nobler grow hue, form, and face,
More inward is shy Beauty's dwelling-place.
And there's a beauty fashioned in the mould
Transmitted from the Beautiful of old,
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But my love's dawneth daily from within;
The loveliness of love made visible,
To feature which the sculptor Form is dull:
Not the mere charms of cheek, or chin, or lip,
That vanish on a week's acquaintanceship;
But that crown-beauty which we cannot clasp,
The beauty that eludes Death's own grave-grasp.
At forty, what we seek for in a Wife
Is a calm haven amid seas of strife:
One fresh green summit in the waste of life,
That gathers dew of heaven and tenderly
Turns it to healing drops for you or me;
A spring of freshness in the desert sand;
A palm for shadow in a weary land;
A being that doth not dwell so far apart
That we can find no entrance save at heart;
One that at equal step with us may walk,
And kiss at equal stature in our talk;
To scale the loftiest life, still arm-in-arm,
As well as nestle in the valleys warm.
Is a calm haven amid seas of strife:
One fresh green summit in the waste of life,
That gathers dew of heaven and tenderly
Turns it to healing drops for you or me;
A spring of freshness in the desert sand;
A palm for shadow in a weary land;
A being that doth not dwell so far apart
That we can find no entrance save at heart;
One that at equal step with us may walk,
And kiss at equal stature in our talk;
To scale the loftiest life, still arm-in-arm,
As well as nestle in the valleys warm.
And here's my Rest, where sheen and shadow meet
O'erhead, the small flowers budding at my feet;
Green picnic places peeping from the wood,
Where you may meet the spirit of Robin Hood
Crossing the moonlight at the old deer-chase;
A brooding Dove the Spirit of the place;
Gleams of the Graces at their bath of dew;
An earthly pleasaunce; heaven trembling through;
My Darling sitting with her hand in mine,
Here, where amid lush grass the large-eyed kine
Ruminant, stolid, statelily behold
The milky plenty and the mellowing gold:
And with glad laugh the tiny buttercup
Its beaker of delight brimful holds up;
And prodigally glorified, the mead
Is all aglow with red-ripe sorrel-seed,
And quick with smells that make one long to be
A-gathering sweets, bloom-buried utterly.
O'erhead, the small flowers budding at my feet;
Green picnic places peeping from the wood,
Where you may meet the spirit of Robin Hood
Crossing the moonlight at the old deer-chase;
A brooding Dove the Spirit of the place;
Gleams of the Graces at their bath of dew;
An earthly pleasaunce; heaven trembling through;
My Darling sitting with her hand in mine,
Here, where amid lush grass the large-eyed kine
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The milky plenty and the mellowing gold:
And with glad laugh the tiny buttercup
Its beaker of delight brimful holds up;
And prodigally glorified, the mead
Is all aglow with red-ripe sorrel-seed,
And quick with smells that make one long to be
A-gathering sweets, bloom-buried utterly.
The sylvan world's old royalties around
With all their Summer beauty newly crowned:
Broad beeches, that have caught alive the swirl
O' the wind-wave—shaped it in their branches' curl;
Proud oaks, from head to foot all feudal yet;
And whispering pines, that have in worship met,—
Their delicate Gothic sharp against the shine
Of sunset heaven's honeyed hyaline—
Black-plumed and hushed as though they were the Hearse
Of day's departed glory, are those Firs
When Venus, glowing in the lift above,
Laughs down on lovers with the eye of Love,
And such a pulse of pleasure as is given
To those who reach the promise of her heaven,
Luminous in her loveliness, as though
The Goddess' self were coming from the glow.
With all their Summer beauty newly crowned:
Broad beeches, that have caught alive the swirl
O' the wind-wave—shaped it in their branches' curl;
Proud oaks, from head to foot all feudal yet;
And whispering pines, that have in worship met,—
Their delicate Gothic sharp against the shine
Of sunset heaven's honeyed hyaline—
Black-plumed and hushed as though they were the Hearse
Of day's departed glory, are those Firs
When Venus, glowing in the lift above,
Laughs down on lovers with the eye of Love,
And such a pulse of pleasure as is given
To those who reach the promise of her heaven,
Luminous in her loveliness, as though
The Goddess' self were coming from the glow.
I brought my Love here happy months ago,
Her winter prison, amid miles of snow.
Poor bird! she felt that she was caged at last,
Her forest far away, its freedom past:
Her eyes made mournful search, mine laughed to see,
She would have flown, and knew not where to flee.
The little wedding-ring had grown a round
Large hoop about our lives, and we were bound!
Useless was all petitionary quest,
No outlet!—so she nestled in my breast;
And may we always be as wise, my dear,
When things look dark around, or foes are near.
Peep in at window now and you may see
Her leading captive my captivity:
Contented with her prison, polishing
The grating round her in a shining ring.
Her winter prison, amid miles of snow.
Poor bird! she felt that she was caged at last,
Her forest far away, its freedom past:
Her eyes made mournful search, mine laughed to see,
She would have flown, and knew not where to flee.
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Large hoop about our lives, and we were bound!
Useless was all petitionary quest,
No outlet!—so she nestled in my breast;
And may we always be as wise, my dear,
When things look dark around, or foes are near.
Peep in at window now and you may see
Her leading captive my captivity:
Contented with her prison, polishing
The grating round her in a shining ring.
And now the fragrant summer-tide hath come
And isled us in a sea of leaf and bloom.
And now the tremulous sweetness, restless grace,
Have settled down to brood in her dear face
That lightens by me, fair and privet-pale,
Soft in the shadow of the bridal-veil:
The sunny sparkle of Southern radiance
That in her English blood doth bicker and dance,
Hath steadied to the still and sacred glow
Which hath more inner life than outer show.
And isled us in a sea of leaf and bloom.
And now the tremulous sweetness, restless grace,
Have settled down to brood in her dear face
That lightens by me, fair and privet-pale,
Soft in the shadow of the bridal-veil:
The sunny sparkle of Southern radiance
That in her English blood doth bicker and dance,
Hath steadied to the still and sacred glow
Which hath more inner life than outer show.
So many are the mishaps and the griefs
In marriage, like Beau Brummel's Neckerchiefs;
Armfuls of failure for one perfect tie!
And have we hit it, do you say or sigh?
In marriage, like Beau Brummel's Neckerchiefs;
Armfuls of failure for one perfect tie!
And have we hit it, do you say or sigh?
Time was when life in triumph would have run,
And faster than the fields catch fire o' the sun,
Or light takes form and feature in the flowers,
My answer would have blossomed with the hours
I should have felt the buds begin to blow
With my love-warmth, another life-dawn glow;
Heard all the bells in heaven ring quite plain
Because young blood went singing through my brain:
Like vernal impulses the verses came;
With soul on tiptoe and my words a-flame,
I should have sung that we had reached the land
Where milk and honey flow o'er golden sand,
And that far El Dorado we had found
Where nothing less than nuggets gild the ground.
But 'tis no more the lyric life of youth,
When fancy seemèd truer than all truth,
And standing in that dawn, the sun of love
Hung dewy rainbows on each web we wove,
And to the leap o' the blood we felt it given
To scale the tallest battlements of heaven;
Poor was the prize of wisdom's proudest dower
Beside that glory of the flesh in flower!
And faster than the fields catch fire o' the sun,
Or light takes form and feature in the flowers,
My answer would have blossomed with the hours
I should have felt the buds begin to blow
With my love-warmth, another life-dawn glow;
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Because young blood went singing through my brain:
Like vernal impulses the verses came;
With soul on tiptoe and my words a-flame,
I should have sung that we had reached the land
Where milk and honey flow o'er golden sand,
And that far El Dorado we had found
Where nothing less than nuggets gild the ground.
But 'tis no more the lyric life of youth,
When fancy seemèd truer than all truth,
And standing in that dawn, the sun of love
Hung dewy rainbows on each web we wove,
And to the leap o' the blood we felt it given
To scale the tallest battlements of heaven;
Poor was the prize of wisdom's proudest dower
Beside that glory of the flesh in flower!
And now I cannot sing my ladye's praise,
Lark-like, as in the morning of those days
When at a touch the song would upward start,
And, half in heaven, empty all the heart.
'Tis August with me now and harvest-heat,
And in the nest the silence is so sweet;
Moreover, love is such a bosom thing,
In words its nestling nearnesses take wing;
No flower of speech could ever yet express
The married sweetness or the homeliness;
We cannot fable the ineffable;
The tongue is tied too, with the heart at full:
Music may hint it with her latest breath,
But fails;—her heaven is only reached through Death.
The stirring of the sap in bole and bough—
Mere feeling—will not set me singing now!
I thank my God for all that He hath given
And ope the windows of my soul to heaven;
I think, in bowed and very humble mood,
I must be better, He hath been so good.
So would I journey to the land above,
Clothed with humility and crowned with love.
Lark-like, as in the morning of those days
When at a touch the song would upward start,
And, half in heaven, empty all the heart.
'Tis August with me now and harvest-heat,
And in the nest the silence is so sweet;
Moreover, love is such a bosom thing,
In words its nestling nearnesses take wing;
No flower of speech could ever yet express
The married sweetness or the homeliness;
We cannot fable the ineffable;
The tongue is tied too, with the heart at full:
Music may hint it with her latest breath,
But fails;—her heaven is only reached through Death.
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Mere feeling—will not set me singing now!
I thank my God for all that He hath given
And ope the windows of my soul to heaven;
I think, in bowed and very humble mood,
I must be better, He hath been so good.
So would I journey to the land above,
Clothed with humility and crowned with love.
I look no more Without, and think to win
The treasures that are only found Within;
And, after many years, have grown too wise
To search our world for some Lost Paradise;
Or feel unhappy should we chance to miss
The next life's possibilities in this.
'Tis here we follow—but hereafter find
The goal all-golden miraged in the mind.
That Age of Gold behind us, and the Isles
Where dwell the Blessèd are but as the smiles
Reflected from a heaven that onward lies,
The Gold of sundown caught in Orient skies.
The treasures that are only found Within;
And, after many years, have grown too wise
To search our world for some Lost Paradise;
Or feel unhappy should we chance to miss
The next life's possibilities in this.
'Tis here we follow—but hereafter find
The goal all-golden miraged in the mind.
That Age of Gold behind us, and the Isles
Where dwell the Blessèd are but as the smiles
Reflected from a heaven that onward lies,
The Gold of sundown caught in Orient skies.
And yet, if any bit of Eden bloom
In this old world, 'tis in the Wedded Home.
And, what a wonder-world of novel life
Do these two range through, hand-in-hand, as Wife
And Husband; in one flesh two spirits paired;
Their joys all doubled, all their sorrows shared:
Two spirits blending in one heavenward spire,
That soars up fragrant from an altar fire;
Two halves in one perfection wed to prove
The perfect Oneness of immortal love!
In this old world, 'tis in the Wedded Home.
And, what a wonder-world of novel life
Do these two range through, hand-in-hand, as Wife
And Husband; in one flesh two spirits paired;
Their joys all doubled, all their sorrows shared:
Two spirits blending in one heavenward spire,
That soars up fragrant from an altar fire;
Two halves in one perfection wed to prove
The perfect Oneness of immortal love!
We cannot see Love with our mortal sight,
But lo! the singing Angels come some night
To bring His tiny image in the Child
Wherewith from out the darkness He hath smiled;
The tender voice whereby the All-loving breaks
His silence, and in human fashion speaks;
The gentle hand put forth to draw us near
The heart of life whose pulse is beating here.
Though seldom do we guess, so dim our eyes,
That God comes down in such a simple guise,
And yet of such the kingdom of Heaven is;
Through them the next world is revealed in this!
But lo! the singing Angels come some night
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Wherewith from out the darkness He hath smiled;
The tender voice whereby the All-loving breaks
His silence, and in human fashion speaks;
The gentle hand put forth to draw us near
The heart of life whose pulse is beating here.
Though seldom do we guess, so dim our eyes,
That God comes down in such a simple guise,
And yet of such the kingdom of Heaven is;
Through them the next world is revealed in this!
And how they come to us to bring us back
What we have lost along the dusty track:
The sweetness of the dawn, the early dew,
The tender green, and heaven's unclouded blue;
The treasures that we dropped upon the ground,
And they, in following after us, have found!
What we have lost along the dusty track:
The sweetness of the dawn, the early dew,
The tender green, and heaven's unclouded blue;
The treasures that we dropped upon the ground,
And they, in following after us, have found!
Ah, Love, my life is not so bare of leaf
But we can find a nest for shelter if
The bounteous heavens should bless us from above
And in our branches nestle some wee dove.
Nor will my darling lack a touch still warm
To finish that fine sculpture of her form;
For if Love dwell in me, the Angel-Elf
Shall kiss her to some likeness of himself,
And little arms shall bow the pride they deck
With other bridal fetters for her neck.
But we can find a nest for shelter if
The bounteous heavens should bless us from above
And in our branches nestle some wee dove.
Nor will my darling lack a touch still warm
To finish that fine sculpture of her form;
For if Love dwell in me, the Angel-Elf
Shall kiss her to some likeness of himself,
And little arms shall bow the pride they deck
With other bridal fetters for her neck.
At the hill-top I reach my resting-place,
To find clear heaven—feel it face to face;
Firm footing after all the weary slips,
To hold the cup unshaken at the lips.
The meaning of my life grows clear at last,
And all my troubles smile back now they're past:
The clouds put on a glory to mine eyes,
My sorrows were my saviour in disguise:
And I have walked with angels unawares,
And upward mounted, climbing over cares,
A little nearer to the home above.
Here let me rest in the good Father's love
Embodied in these arms embracing me,
Serenely as the sea-flowers in deep sea.
To find clear heaven—feel it face to face;
Firm footing after all the weary slips,
To hold the cup unshaken at the lips.
The meaning of my life grows clear at last,
And all my troubles smile back now they're past:
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My sorrows were my saviour in disguise:
And I have walked with angels unawares,
And upward mounted, climbing over cares,
A little nearer to the home above.
Here let me rest in the good Father's love
Embodied in these arms embracing me,
Serenely as the sea-flowers in deep sea.
'Tis true, just as we feel our foreheads crowned,
And all so glorious grows the prospect round,
It seems one stride might launch us on heaven's wave,
Thenceforth our steps go downward to the grave.
What then? I would not rest till spirit rust,
And I am undistinguishable dust:
And if Love bring no second Spring to me,
This is the fore-feel of a Spring to be;
If no new Dawn, yet in the evening hours,
Freshly bedewed, more sweetly smell the flowers;
And round my path the glow of love hath made
Illumination for the evening shade.
And all so glorious grows the prospect round,
It seems one stride might launch us on heaven's wave,
Thenceforth our steps go downward to the grave.
What then? I would not rest till spirit rust,
And I am undistinguishable dust:
And if Love bring no second Spring to me,
This is the fore-feel of a Spring to be;
If no new Dawn, yet in the evening hours,
Freshly bedewed, more sweetly smell the flowers;
And round my path the glow of love hath made
Illumination for the evening shade.
Something, dear Lord, Thou hast for me to say,
Or wherefore draw me toward the springs of day,
And make my face with happiness to shine
By softly placing this dear hand in mine
Even while I stretched it to Thee through the dark:
A something that shall shine aloft and mark
Thy goodness and my gratitude upon
This Mount Transfiguration when I'm gone?
If Thou hast set my foot on firmer ground,
Lord, let me show what helper I have found;
If Thou hast touched me with thy loftier light,
Lord, let me turn to those that walk in night
And climb with more at heart than they can bear,
Though but a twinkle through their cloud of care.
Only a grain of sand my life may be,
But let it sparkle, Lord, with light of Thee!
Or wherefore draw me toward the springs of day,
And make my face with happiness to shine
By softly placing this dear hand in mine
Even while I stretched it to Thee through the dark:
A something that shall shine aloft and mark
Thy goodness and my gratitude upon
This Mount Transfiguration when I'm gone?
If Thou hast set my foot on firmer ground,
Lord, let me show what helper I have found;
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Lord, let me turn to those that walk in night
And climb with more at heart than they can bear,
Though but a twinkle through their cloud of care.
Only a grain of sand my life may be,
But let it sparkle, Lord, with light of Thee!
I ask not that my Verse should break in bloom
With flowers, to crown my love or wreathe my tomb;
Nor do I seek the laurel for my brow,
But only that above my grave may grow
Some sunny grains of Thine immortal seed
That may be garnered up for human need
In Bread of Life on which poor souls can feed!
With flowers, to crown my love or wreathe my tomb;
Nor do I seek the laurel for my brow,
But only that above my grave may grow
Some sunny grains of Thine immortal seed
That may be garnered up for human need
In Bread of Life on which poor souls can feed!
Of late my life hath gathered more at root,
Making new sap, I trust, for future fruit:
Lord, sun my harvest, set it ripening
With sheaves in autumn thick as leaves in spring!
It is my prayer at night, my dream by day,
To make some conquest for the Poor. I pray
Thee let me have my one supreme desire,
To fill some earthly facts with heavenly fire;
Give voice to their dumb world before I die;
Their patient pain more piteous than a cry!
Let me work now, while all eternity
With its large-seeming leisure waits for me.
Making new sap, I trust, for future fruit:
Lord, sun my harvest, set it ripening
With sheaves in autumn thick as leaves in spring!
It is my prayer at night, my dream by day,
To make some conquest for the Poor. I pray
Thee let me have my one supreme desire,
To fill some earthly facts with heavenly fire;
Give voice to their dumb world before I die;
Their patient pain more piteous than a cry!
Let me work now, while all eternity
With its large-seeming leisure waits for me.
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