Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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190
II.
Then while we mused, a word
Fell on us, spoken once on desert plain,
“Go, gather up these fragments that remain,
And store them carefully, that none be lost;”
And at that Voice methought the ashes stirred
Within the Vale of Vision; sere and dry
Each severed hope, each shred of memory
Did shake and come together. Suddenly
Our life from days when infancy was sweet
Stood up before us, all from head to feet
Transfigured fair.
Fell on us, spoken once on desert plain,
“Go, gather up these fragments that remain,
And store them carefully, that none be lost;”
And at that Voice methought the ashes stirred
Within the Vale of Vision; sere and dry
Each severed hope, each shred of memory
Did shake and come together. Suddenly
Our life from days when infancy was sweet
Stood up before us, all from head to feet
Transfigured fair.
“How holy is this place!”
I said, and wist not what I spake; methought
I felt like one upon his journey brought
By ways he knows not of; these pathways dim
Had ever seemed their promised end to cheat,
Yet had they led to Him
In whom Life's tangled, broken threads complete
Are gathered up, its wasted things made meet
For holier use, its roughness smoothed, its bitter turned to sweet!
I said, and wist not what I spake; methought
I felt like one upon his journey brought
By ways he knows not of; these pathways dim
Had ever seemed their promised end to cheat,
Yet had they led to Him
In whom Life's tangled, broken threads complete
Are gathered up, its wasted things made meet
For holier use, its roughness smoothed, its bitter turned to sweet!
191
Then saw we how this hour
That we had chidden with, this mortal life,
That broke its faith with us, had not the power
To keep it better; weariness and strife
So marred its gentler purpose; yet comprest
Among its thick-set thorns, because the air
Did breathe about it all too chill and rare,
Our Past had held our Future, like a Rose
That may not yet its perfect soul disclose,
Lest angry winds should scatter and molest;
So shut within this narrow bud, its woes
Were but the crumpled leaves too closely prest;
And all its loveliness did but enclose
The germ of after beauty, now a Guest,
But soon to be a Dweller!
That we had chidden with, this mortal life,
That broke its faith with us, had not the power
To keep it better; weariness and strife
So marred its gentler purpose; yet comprest
Among its thick-set thorns, because the air
Did breathe about it all too chill and rare,
Our Past had held our Future, like a Rose
That may not yet its perfect soul disclose,
Lest angry winds should scatter and molest;
So shut within this narrow bud, its woes
Were but the crumpled leaves too closely prest;
And all its loveliness did but enclose
The germ of after beauty, now a Guest,
But soon to be a Dweller!
So we stood,
While gradual to our feet the shadows fell;
We looked abroad, and all was very good;
On all within was written, “It is well;”
For things that were and would be met and kissed
Each other in the heart, that like a child
For loss of each bright joy that it had missed,
Was by a loving promise reconciled!
While gradual to our feet the shadows fell;
We looked abroad, and all was very good;
On all within was written, “It is well;”
For things that were and would be met and kissed
Each other in the heart, that like a child
For loss of each bright joy that it had missed,
Was by a loving promise reconciled!
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