 | Poems: Second Series |  |
184
HIDDEN DEPTHS.
Nay dearest, do not lean on me,
Nor let thy fond and fragile form
Cling to my breast—my love! my own!
Thy sweet confiding faith would be
A prop to stay me in life's storm—
And I must stand alone—alone.
Nor let thy fond and fragile form
Cling to my breast—my love! my own!
Thy sweet confiding faith would be
A prop to stay me in life's storm—
And I must stand alone—alone.
And do not seek to know too well
The deepest secrets of my soul:
Nor in my lore be overwise.
Nay—if I could, I would not tell,
For straightway waves of flame would roll
Before my darling's dazzled eyes.
The deepest secrets of my soul:
Nor in my lore be overwise.
Nay—if I could, I would not tell,
For straightway waves of flame would roll
Before my darling's dazzled eyes.
And not the endless plummet-line
Of thy dear love could ever reach
The bottom of this well of fire—
The seafloor of this heart of mine—
This stormy sea without a beach—
Where wonder, doubt and dread desire
Of thy dear love could ever reach
The bottom of this well of fire—
The seafloor of this heart of mine—
This stormy sea without a beach—
Where wonder, doubt and dread desire
185
Are swirling currents, free and swift,
Of wind or water, light or flame,
That wander myriad fathoms deep,
And bear about, and whirl and lift
The sounding lead with aimless aim,
Mocking the course it cannot keep.
Of wind or water, light or flame,
That wander myriad fathoms deep,
And bear about, and whirl and lift
The sounding lead with aimless aim,
Mocking the course it cannot keep.
I little care that alien eyes
Should misinterpret what they see,
Or what they see not—being blind;
But tears of bitter anguish rise,
That even my beloved in me
No rock, no resting-place may find.
Should misinterpret what they see,
Or what they see not—being blind;
But tears of bitter anguish rise,
That even my beloved in me
No rock, no resting-place may find.
And yet they say the solid hill,
The granite wall that breaks the blast,
Rolled molten billows long ago,
That slowly—yielding to God's will—
Grew cold, and knew that they were cast
In iron moulds, and ceased to flow.
The granite wall that breaks the blast,
Rolled molten billows long ago,
That slowly—yielding to God's will—
Grew cold, and knew that they were cast
In iron moulds, and ceased to flow.
And haply what they tell is true,
And—mastered by eternity—
These fiery waves of seething spray
Will change to peaks that pierce the blue,
And from their heights my love and I
Shall wait the breaking of the day.
And—mastered by eternity—
These fiery waves of seething spray
Will change to peaks that pierce the blue,
And from their heights my love and I
Shall wait the breaking of the day.
| Poems: Second Series | |