 | Western windows and other poems |  |
157
THE BOOK OF GOLD.
I.
If I could write a Book made sweet with thee,And therefore sweet with all that may be sweet,
With lingering music never more complete
Should turn its golden pages: each should be
Like whispering voices, beckoning hands, and he
Who read should follow, while his heart would beat
For some new miracle, with most eager feet
Through loving labyrinths of mystery.
Temple and lighted home of Love should seem
The Book wherein my love remember'd thine:
There holiest visions evermore should gleam,
Vanishing wings, with wandering souls of sound
And breaths of incense from an inmost shrine
Sought nearer evermore and never found.
II.
Vague wishes, in my bosom, never coldBrought these vague words to me one Summer night,
Longing to prison in crystal the sweet light
158
To keep my love within the radiant fold
Of Love's true heraldry in histories bright;
And Love, the only poet, whisper'd “Write,”
When I began with impulse overbold
Which had dumb lips—then, turning, spake to Love:
“Sweet Master, how shall I, unskilful, know
To speak of thee and thine, all things above?”
“I still shall hold thy hand and guide thy heart;
Let what is mine be thine,” he answer'd low,
“And what is artful Love's thy loving Art.”
| Western windows and other poems | |