 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
542
COMMONPLACE.
My little girl is commonplace, you say?
Well, well, I grant it, as you use the phrase,
Concede the whole; although there was a day
When I too questioned words, and from a maze
Of hair split meanings cut with gloss drawn line,
Sought to draw out a language superfine,
Above the common, scarify with words and scintillate with pen;
But that time's over now—now I am content to stand with other men.
Well, well, I grant it, as you use the phrase,
Concede the whole; although there was a day
When I too questioned words, and from a maze
Of hair split meanings cut with gloss drawn line,
Sought to draw out a language superfine,
Above the common, scarify with words and scintillate with pen;
But that time's over now—now I am content to stand with other men.
It's the best place, fair youth. I see your smile—
The scornful smile of that ambitious age
That thinks it all things knows, and all the while
It nothing knows. And yet those smiles presage
Some future fame, because your aim is high;
As when one tries to shoot into the sky,
If his rash arrow at the moon he aims, a bolder flight we see,
Though vain, than if with level poise it safely reached the nearest tree.
The scornful smile of that ambitious age
That thinks it all things knows, and all the while
It nothing knows. And yet those smiles presage
Some future fame, because your aim is high;
As when one tries to shoot into the sky,
If his rash arrow at the moon he aims, a bolder flight we see,
Though vain, than if with level poise it safely reached the nearest tree.
A common proverb that! Does it disjoint
Your graceful terms? Once more you'll understand;
Cut down a pencil to too fine a point,
Lo, it breaks off, all useless in your hand!
The child is fitted for her present sphere;
Let her live out her life, without the fear
That comes when souls, daring the heights of dread infinity, are tossed
Now up, now down, by the great winds, their little home forever lost.
Your graceful terms? Once more you'll understand;
Cut down a pencil to too fine a point,
Lo, it breaks off, all useless in your hand!
The child is fitted for her present sphere;
Let her live out her life, without the fear
That comes when souls, daring the heights of dread infinity, are tossed
Now up, now down, by the great winds, their little home forever lost.
My little girl seems to you commonplace
Because she loves the daisies, common flowers;
Because she finds in common pictures, grace,
And nothing knows of classic music's powers;
She reads her romance, but the mystic's creed
Is something far beyond her simple need.
She goes to church, but the mixed doubts and theories that thinkers find
In all religious truth can never enter her undoubting mind.
Because she loves the daisies, common flowers;
Because she finds in common pictures, grace,
And nothing knows of classic music's powers;
She reads her romance, but the mystic's creed
Is something far beyond her simple need.
She goes to church, but the mixed doubts and theories that thinkers find
In all religious truth can never enter her undoubting mind.
543
A daisy's earth's own blossom—better far
Than city gardener's costly hybrid prize;
When you're found worthy of a higher star,
'Twill then be time earth's daisies to despise;
But not till then. And if the child can sing
Sweet songs like “Robin Gray,” why should I fling
A cloud over her music's joy, and set for her a heavy task
Of learning what Bach knew, or finding sense under mad Chopin's mask?
Than city gardener's costly hybrid prize;
When you're found worthy of a higher star,
'Twill then be time earth's daisies to despise;
But not till then. And if the child can sing
Sweet songs like “Robin Gray,” why should I fling
A cloud over her music's joy, and set for her a heavy task
Of learning what Bach knew, or finding sense under mad Chopin's mask?
Then as to pictures, if her taste prefers
That common picture of the “Huguenots,”
Where the girl's heart—a tender heart like hers—
Strives to defeat earth's greatest powers' great plots
With her poor little kerchief, shall I change
The print for Turner's riddles wild and strange?
Or take her stories—simple tales which her leisure hours beguile—
And give her Browning's Sordello, a Herbert Spencer, a Carlyle?
That common picture of the “Huguenots,”
Where the girl's heart—a tender heart like hers—
Strives to defeat earth's greatest powers' great plots
With her poor little kerchief, shall I change
The print for Turner's riddles wild and strange?
Or take her stories—simple tales which her leisure hours beguile—
And give her Browning's Sordello, a Herbert Spencer, a Carlyle?
Her creed, too, in your eyes is commonplace,
Because she does not doubt the Bible's truth,
Because she does not doubt the saving grace
Of fervent prayer, but from her rosy youth,
So full of life, to grey old age's time,
Prays on with faith half ignorant, half sublime.
Yes, commonplace. But if I spoil this common faith, when all is done
Can deist, pantheist or atheist invent a better one?
Because she does not doubt the Bible's truth,
Because she does not doubt the saving grace
Of fervent prayer, but from her rosy youth,
So full of life, to grey old age's time,
Prays on with faith half ignorant, half sublime.
Yes, commonplace. But if I spoil this common faith, when all is done
Can deist, pantheist or atheist invent a better one?
Climb to the highest mountain's highest verge,
Step off; you've lost the petty height you had;
Up to the highest point poor reason urge,
Step off; the sense is gone, the mind is mad.
“Thus far, and yet no further shalt thou go,”
Was said of old, and I have found it so;
This planet's ours, 'tis all we have; here we belong and those are wise.
Who make the best of it, nor vainly try above its plane to rise.
Step off; you've lost the petty height you had;
Up to the highest point poor reason urge,
Step off; the sense is gone, the mind is mad.
“Thus far, and yet no further shalt thou go,”
Was said of old, and I have found it so;
This planet's ours, 'tis all we have; here we belong and those are wise.
Who make the best of it, nor vainly try above its plane to rise.
544
Nay, nay; I know already your reply;
I have been through the whole, long years ago.
I have soared up as far as soul can fly,
I have dug down as far as mind can go:
But always found at certain depth or height,
The bar that separates the Infinite
From finite powers, against whose strength immutable we beat in vain,
Or circle round only to find ourselves at starting point again.
I have been through the whole, long years ago.
I have soared up as far as soul can fly,
I have dug down as far as mind can go:
But always found at certain depth or height,
The bar that separates the Infinite
From finite powers, against whose strength immutable we beat in vain,
Or circle round only to find ourselves at starting point again.
If you must for yourself find out this truth,
I bid you go, proud heart, with blessings free;
'Tis the old fruitless quest of ardent youth,
And soon or late you will come back to me.
You'll learn there's naught so common as the breath
Of life, unless it be the calm of death;
You'll learn that with the Lord Omnipotent there's nothing commonplace,
And with such souls as that poor child's, humbled, abashed, you'll hide your face.
I bid you go, proud heart, with blessings free;
'Tis the old fruitless quest of ardent youth,
And soon or late you will come back to me.
You'll learn there's naught so common as the breath
Of life, unless it be the calm of death;
You'll learn that with the Lord Omnipotent there's nothing commonplace,
And with such souls as that poor child's, humbled, abashed, you'll hide your face.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |