 | Louise de la Valliaere and other poems |  |
72
TWO WAYFARERS.
One with a sudden cry
Crieth: “O Lord! and whence is this to me
That in my daily pathway I should see
Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh,
With Thy still face and fair,
And the divine deep sorrow in Thine eyes,
And Thy eternal arms stretched loving-wise
As on the Cross they were?
Crieth: “O Lord! and whence is this to me
That in my daily pathway I should see
Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh,
With Thy still face and fair,
And the divine deep sorrow in Thine eyes,
And Thy eternal arms stretched loving-wise
As on the Cross they were?
“If I had only known
How I should meet Thee this day face to face,
I had made all my life a praying-place
For this hour's sake alone:
Now am I poor indeed.
I who have gathered all things most forlorn,
Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with thorn;—
See how my weak hands bleed!”
How I should meet Thee this day face to face,
I had made all my life a praying-place
For this hour's sake alone:
Now am I poor indeed.
I who have gathered all things most forlorn,
Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with thorn;—
See how my weak hands bleed!”
73
One bendeth low, and saith:
“Lo! My hands bleed likewise, and I am God.
Come, heart of Mine! wilt tread the path I trod,
The desert way of death?
Come, bleeding hands! and take
My thorns that bring new toil and weariness,
Days of grey pain, and nights of sore distress,
Come! for My great love's sake.
“Lo! My hands bleed likewise, and I am God.
Come, heart of Mine! wilt tread the path I trod,
The desert way of death?
Come, bleeding hands! and take
My thorns that bring new toil and weariness,
Days of grey pain, and nights of sore distress,
Come! for My great love's sake.
“Yet if thou fearest to come,
Speak! I can give thee fairest earthly things,
Love, and sweet peace in shelter of love's wings,
By pleasant paths of home,
And thou wilt still be Mine.
Choose thou thy path! My way is dark, I know,
Yet through the moaning wind, and rain, and snow
My feet should go with thine.”
Speak! I can give thee fairest earthly things,
Love, and sweet peace in shelter of love's wings,
By pleasant paths of home,
And thou wilt still be Mine.
Choose thou thy path! My way is dark, I know,
Yet through the moaning wind, and rain, and snow
My feet should go with thine.”
One groweth wan and grey,
Dieth a space the trembling heart in him,
Then he doth lift his weary eyes and dim,
With ashen lips doth say:
“With Thee the desert sands!
How could I turn from Thee, Thou flower of Pain!
Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and vain
And wringing of the hands?
Dieth a space the trembling heart in him,
Then he doth lift his weary eyes and dim,
With ashen lips doth say:
“With Thee the desert sands!
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Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and vain
And wringing of the hands?
“If the rose were my share,
And Thine the thorn, how could I lift mine eyes
One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise,
To Thine eyes dreamy fair
That muse on Calvary?
Under the sad straight brows Thy gaze would say:
‘Now, heart! in what dark hour of night or day
Hast thou kept watch with Me?’”
And Thine the thorn, how could I lift mine eyes
One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise,
To Thine eyes dreamy fair
That muse on Calvary?
Under the sad straight brows Thy gaze would say:
‘Now, heart! in what dark hour of night or day
Hast thou kept watch with Me?’”
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