University of Virginia Library

The earth, without, was dark and very still:
No loving moon leaned downwards from the night
To draw forth, out of darkness, vale and hill,
And wooded town, and far stream glistening white;
And with her patient, maiden-modest skill,
Set the whole silent scene before her sight;
And the near park
Was still and dark,
And night and stillness, more than all
Clung to the trees beside the wet house-wall.
No insect's hum, nor bat-wing's whirring stroke,
Nor sudden cry the night's thick stillness broke.

Cool through the casement came light evening airs
From off the meadows wet with summer-rain:
At times a rain-drop, shaken unawares,
Dripped from its hold, held long, but held in vain.
The gauzy curtain, flowered, slight and frail.
Swelled with the soft air, like a pleasure-sail;
And, in the room, a rich, soft radiance fell
From the high, shaded lamp, on graceful things
Which woman knows to choose and set so well
That from her mere warm touch a new grace clings;
And now, in that most still of summer eves,
Within the circle of the lamp's mild glow,
A youth and maiden turned the pictured leaves
Of a fair book; their two heads bending so
That each hears how the other's young heart heaves:
(Ah! think we of our own loves, long ago?)
Her wreathéd, glossy hair now brushed his cheek;
Now their quick eyes, by one sure, common thrill,
Rose toward each other's, and they did not speak,
For strongest, quick-winged speech
Has never learned to reach
Where love's fair meaning looks from cloudless height.
Then she first dropped her slow lids, strong and meek,
And both turned to their task, as with one will;
For two like these, knowing that subtile might
Fills all their features to the utmost grace,
Fear to show this beside each other's sight;
Scarce themselves dare to read other's face;
For their deep lives have surely mined, below,
Each toward the other, through the wall between,
Which soon shall fall, at some slight, sudden blow,
And one wide love be where two hearts have been.
O dear young love! Young love most bright!
Thou fairest thing this earth can show!
Old eyes will moisten at the sight,
Old hearts will feel the once-known glow!

A comely lady sat apart;
It might be she was deep in thought;
It might be that her very heart
Must go with what her fingers wrought;
Never by any chance
Her calm, wise matron-glance
That happy scene of young love sought.
A child, as fresh as that night's breeze,
Bright as the gone day's light,
Holding her own book on her knees,
Beneath her fast-fixed sight,
With many a half-frayed golden curl,
Sat near the lovers' seat:
Through sudden leap and race and whirl,
Chasing some story fleet,
Or asking oft, with knitted brow,
The little-heeding lovers, how
The words and sense could meet.
Her little unripe heart recks less
Of their delicious silentness.

The maiden's father, too, whate'er
His stately thoughts or fancies were,
Seemed, by all senses save of sight,
(Unlike the mother, calm and wise,)
Drawn to that circle of the light
Where the two felt each other's eyes.
And so, in that most still of summer-eves,
The youth and maiden turned their pictured leaves.

“Read to me here,” she said, and laid her hand,
Her soft, warm hand, on his, to point him where:
“Of ‘The Night's Guest,’ that I may understand
Why there is pictured here a churchyard bare
With rounded graves and tombs within the wall
And the tall, shadowing yew-trees over all:
Why Death stands here, within this open door,
That the old man waits, wearily, before.”
The youth glanced at the picture while she said
Her gentle words,—and longer,—and then read:—

THE NIGHT'S GUEST.

The two were graver when the tale was done;
And then the maiden said, “The old are sad
When all dear things have fallen, one by one,
And the dim eyes see earth with shadows clad.”
She spoke far-looking forward into thought
Where from the poet's hand the scene stood wrought.—
“We are not old,” the young man answer made;
“Nor does the world, to us, yet wear its shade.
We look, with longing eyes,
Where our bright future lies,
A fair, fair field, with glistering glories wet,
And fame and power, to win, ere the long sun be set!”
She quickly turned to him, from her far thought,
And with full eyes his flashing glances caught.
Then he recalled himself from that great part,
But wearing half its look upon his face:
“And love”—he murmured, down into her heart.
Already floating tears in her bright eyes had place:
“What earthly thing shall last? What earthly thing shall last?”
She said, most sadly: “Still must we forecast?”
But her round tears brought forth his answer, fast.
“How can this change, until this life be changed?
How can it change, till life itself be changed?”
He said: “Love is the very inmost thing.
From our own being we must be estranged,
Ere time to this deep love a change can bring.”
“If it be God's,” her voice most kind and dear
Spoke back, “the world cannot be drear:”
And when they parted, wishing each “Good night!”
“It must be God's,” she said; and she was right.
Then their two loves met at each other's lip:
Can life be drear, before such fellowship?
Peace to thee, dear young love! Good night! Good night!
For not till youth, and life, and death is o'er,
Shall this world's love, thus hallowed, be no more.
But the short story of the tired Night's Guest
Tells how that love, at evening, goes to rest.