Teresa and Other Poems By James Rhoades |
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THE GENTLE HEART
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 | Teresa and Other Poems |  |
108
THE GENTLE HEART
I've wandered high, and I've wandered low,
A pilgrim wight on a weary quest,
And many a hostel fair I know,
But in one, one only, have found my rest.
Who were its builders might no man tell;
'Twas ruinous old in every part;
But the name thereof I remember well:
They called it ‘The Sign of the Gentle Heart.’
A pilgrim wight on a weary quest,
And many a hostel fair I know,
But in one, one only, have found my rest.
Who were its builders might no man tell;
'Twas ruinous old in every part;
But the name thereof I remember well:
They called it ‘The Sign of the Gentle Heart.’
It stood at the bend of a mountain-road;
Far under, a smoke-veiled city lay;
And many a back with many a load
Paused at the portal, but few would stay.
They saw beneath them a lurid glare,
Or heard the hum of the distant mart,
And they loathed the calm of the mountain-air,
And turned from the Sign of the Gentle Heart.
Far under, a smoke-veiled city lay;
And many a back with many a load
Paused at the portal, but few would stay.
They saw beneath them a lurid glare,
Or heard the hum of the distant mart,
And they loathed the calm of the mountain-air,
And turned from the Sign of the Gentle Heart.
But I, fore-wearied, and come from far,
The wayside shelter to seek was fain,
And with me a youth outworn in war,
And an old man bowed with age and pain;
When lo! at the threshold my limbs grew light,
The soldier forgot both toil and smart,
And the old man's eyes gleamed strangely bright,
As we passed 'neath the Sign of the Gentle Heart.
The wayside shelter to seek was fain,
And with me a youth outworn in war,
And an old man bowed with age and pain;
When lo! at the threshold my limbs grew light,
The soldier forgot both toil and smart,
And the old man's eyes gleamed strangely bright,
As we passed 'neath the Sign of the Gentle Heart.
109
Oh, thence how fair was the prospect spread!
We pored on the summer's open page,
Where river and city, copse and mead,
Seemed touched with the glow of the Golden Age.
The course of our life grew clear and plain;
So long we had toiled without star or chart!
And the haven of death not hard to gain
As we gazed from the door of the Gentle Heart.
We pored on the summer's open page,
Where river and city, copse and mead,
Seemed touched with the glow of the Golden Age.
The course of our life grew clear and plain;
So long we had toiled without star or chart!
And the haven of death not hard to gain
As we gazed from the door of the Gentle Heart.
Mine host was of angel mien and brow;
Methought, as he stood there, grave and high,
What was, what shall be, and what is now,
Lay glassed in the calm of his brooding eye;
Like one that pines for a purer air,
He seemed in spirit to dwell apart;
But he found us a chamber cool and fair,
And bade us rest in the Gentle Heart.
Methought, as he stood there, grave and high,
What was, what shall be, and what is now,
Lay glassed in the calm of his brooding eye;
Like one that pines for a purer air,
He seemed in spirit to dwell apart;
But he found us a chamber cool and fair,
And bade us rest in the Gentle Heart.
He showed us a well of virtue rare,
That whoso' gazeth therein shall see
No image of self reflected there,
But the semblance of One more sad than he:
It flows from a fount unknown to men;
Its bason of pearl mocks human art;
And seldom, he said, they thirst again
Who drink of the springs of the Gentle Heart.
That whoso' gazeth therein shall see
No image of self reflected there,
But the semblance of One more sad than he:
It flows from a fount unknown to men;
Its bason of pearl mocks human art;
And seldom, he said, they thirst again
Who drink of the springs of the Gentle Heart.
O lost self-seeker, whom lust of gold,
Or pride, or pleasure, hath left forlorn!
O wrath-tormented, who pay tenfold
Hate to the hater, and scorn for scorn!
Poor fevered spirits agape for rest,
By passion lured from the better part,
I bid you forth on a saner quest:
Go seek the Sign of the Gentle Heart.
Or pride, or pleasure, hath left forlorn!
O wrath-tormented, who pay tenfold
Hate to the hater, and scorn for scorn!
Poor fevered spirits agape for rest,
By passion lured from the better part,
I bid you forth on a saner quest:
Go seek the Sign of the Gentle Heart.
| Teresa and Other Poems | |