 | Leaves of life |  |
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II.
It is not that he is not all I dreamed
—O, more than all I ever dared to dream:
It is not that the splendour that he seemed
Is dwarfed by nearness to a tawdry gleam:
It is not that I am not glad, and filled
With wine of joy his presence has distilled:—
It is a foolish fever of the soul
That burns and shivers, and will not be stilled.
—O, more than all I ever dared to dream:
It is not that the splendour that he seemed
Is dwarfed by nearness to a tawdry gleam:
It is not that I am not glad, and filled
With wine of joy his presence has distilled:—
It is a foolish fever of the soul
That burns and shivers, and will not be stilled.
It is not doubt! Doubt! when my every thought
Commends him that his is not otherwise.
Each word of his with fervent force is fraught,
And the world's light is in his earnest eyes,
And at the moment when he spoke my name
Our natures met and blended—flame in flame!
His was my youth, and mine his larger view
—His surer vision and more perfect aim.
Commends him that his is not otherwise.
Each word of his with fervent force is fraught,
And the world's light is in his earnest eyes,
And at the moment when he spoke my name
Our natures met and blended—flame in flame!
His was my youth, and mine his larger view
—His surer vision and more perfect aim.
It is not fear nor sadness nor unrest
That frets my soul and gnaws perpetually;
Is it a doubt if I who give my best
Remain his debtor still too utterly?
No—I give all—and know that in his eyes
The loving heart best decks the sacrifice;
And my poor all—with all my heart thus given—
For all he needs from me, shall well suffice!
That frets my soul and gnaws perpetually;
Is it a doubt if I who give my best
Remain his debtor still too utterly?
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The loving heart best decks the sacrifice;
And my poor all—with all my heart thus given—
For all he needs from me, shall well suffice!
Stay—here's his story. Noble, rich, and young,
Learned, as the young are learned, in books, not men—
With youth's great-small ambitions he had strung
Life's harp that gave him music back again—
The music that is sweetest to man's ear,
Until that other song he comes to hear,
The harmony of visions, and he knows
No other music ever can be dear.
Learned, as the young are learned, in books, not men—
With youth's great-small ambitions he had strung
Life's harp that gave him music back again—
The music that is sweetest to man's ear,
Until that other song he comes to hear,
The harmony of visions, and he knows
No other music ever can be dear.
He heard the heavenly song, and then he knew
How, listening for its echo in his life,
He too must learn and labour, live and do—
Through patient waiting, and glad easy strife.
He trod the quiet, bitter, cruel way,
Worked patiently for many a weary day
Among sad brothers sick with sordid cares,
Till Time should give him leave to say his say.
How, listening for its echo in his life,
He too must learn and labour, live and do—
Through patient waiting, and glad easy strife.
He trod the quiet, bitter, cruel way,
Worked patiently for many a weary day
Among sad brothers sick with sordid cares,
Till Time should give him leave to say his say.
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Two years of weeks of days of hard dull toil!
With no sweet restful speech to lighten it:
One in a workshop—one upon the soil;
And then it seemed the time was ripe and fit.
He spoke—men listened, and his voice and eyes
Turned slaves to men—made patriots out of spies,
And, as spreads water over level land,
His spirit spread o'er men, to make them wise.
With no sweet restful speech to lighten it:
One in a workshop—one upon the soil;
And then it seemed the time was ripe and fit.
He spoke—men listened, and his voice and eyes
Turned slaves to men—made patriots out of spies,
And, as spreads water over level land,
His spirit spread o'er men, to make them wise.
And hope sprang up, through tangled growth of fears,
And splendid dreams lit up the night like stars,
Making wild rainbows through men's lifelong tears
That mocked the strength of tyrants' prison-bars;
And Liberty flung glory over shame,
And walked beside men in the furnace flame,
And life seemed worth the living, and desire
Within a vision of completion came.
And splendid dreams lit up the night like stars,
Making wild rainbows through men's lifelong tears
That mocked the strength of tyrants' prison-bars;
And Liberty flung glory over shame,
And walked beside men in the furnace flame,
And life seemed worth the living, and desire
Within a vision of completion came.
Then ruin! On a sudden—who knows how?
Some spy, whose name the devil were sick to speak,
Sold his own soul for power to break his vow—
And, as a wave foams up a rocky creek,
Rushed on them loss, disaster and despair,
And death of faith—more hard than all to bear;
And he awoke from all those dreams of his—
An exile, with a crown of thorns to wear.
Some spy, whose name the devil were sick to speak,
Sold his own soul for power to break his vow—
And, as a wave foams up a rocky creek,
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And death of faith—more hard than all to bear;
And he awoke from all those dreams of his—
An exile, with a crown of thorns to wear.
(O crown of thorns, more dear than any crown,
Save victory's, that on men's brows is laid!
This thou hast woven, O Freedom, for thine own—
With this our utmost pain is overpaid!
And, for the other crown, we know, we know
That while we wear the thorns, the laurels grow,
And on some head that wins thee shall be laid,
When these poor hearts that love thee, are laid low.)
Save victory's, that on men's brows is laid!
This thou hast woven, O Freedom, for thine own—
With this our utmost pain is overpaid!
And, for the other crown, we know, we know
That while we wear the thorns, the laurels grow,
And on some head that wins thee shall be laid,
When these poor hearts that love thee, are laid low.)
An exile, with a crown of thorns for prize,
Had I been he, I might perhaps—who knows?—
After the winter of strife and sacrifice,
Have sought to wreathe my thorn-crown with the rose;
Have known a bitter, blind, and wilful hour,
When all the world showed but one fruitless flower,
And in that hour I might have gathered it
For my wrecked heart's uncompensating dower.
Had I been he, I might perhaps—who knows?—
After the winter of strife and sacrifice,
Have sought to wreathe my thorn-crown with the rose;
Have known a bitter, blind, and wilful hour,
When all the world showed but one fruitless flower,
And in that hour I might have gathered it
For my wrecked heart's uncompensating dower.
He? What he did? He slowly, slowly grew
Accustomed to believe that all was lost;
He knew, perhaps, that high dreams bud anew,
In spite of time, and fate, and wind and frost,
But he was weary, and he chanced to meet
A woman very fair and very sweet;
And he was right, as always, when he laid
His broken life at her belovèd feet.
Accustomed to believe that all was lost;
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In spite of time, and fate, and wind and frost,
But he was weary, and he chanced to meet
A woman very fair and very sweet;
And he was right, as always, when he laid
His broken life at her belovèd feet.
O, she is fair, with wonderful gold eyes
That deepen into brown, or gleam to green,
And slow sweet speech, that softens into sighs—
Sighs that her laughter ripples in between;
And when she speaks he hears his own soul's cry
Through those soft scarlet lips of hers, and I
Hear his own voice by some sweet echo rendered
That ever makes me sad—I know not why.
That deepen into brown, or gleam to green,
And slow sweet speech, that softens into sighs—
Sighs that her laughter ripples in between;
And when she speaks he hears his own soul's cry
Through those soft scarlet lips of hers, and I
Hear his own voice by some sweet echo rendered
That ever makes me sad—I know not why.
He came back to us here because he heard
In some electric flash across the sea
Of hope re-risen here: and at the word
He came, new named, for Freedom's sake to be
A slave in those same chains which once he wore,
Came back to love and labour as before,
Strive as before to reach the goal we see,
And—grant it, Liberty!—to fail no more!
In some electric flash across the sea
Of hope re-risen here: and at the word
He came, new named, for Freedom's sake to be
A slave in those same chains which once he wore,
Came back to love and labour as before,
Strive as before to reach the goal we see,
And—grant it, Liberty!—to fail no more!
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And when we sit and talk, as talk we do,
Often, true friend to friend, the heart laid bare,
She smiles at us, and drops a word or two
That fits his mood as sunshine fits clear air;
And he is glad to the sound core of him,
And life's sweet cup fills to its golden brim,
To see her eyes shine with reflected light
From the one Light that never can grow dim.
Often, true friend to friend, the heart laid bare,
She smiles at us, and drops a word or two
That fits his mood as sunshine fits clear air;
And he is glad to the sound core of him,
And life's sweet cup fills to its golden brim,
To see her eyes shine with reflected light
From the one Light that never can grow dim.
It must be sweet, that fellowship and faith—
That love for love—that passion and that trust
That she, as he, is faithful even to death,
That she, like him, esteems all gain as dust,
And only labours for the glorious goal,
For the freed body and enfranchised soul:
To one dear end vows every part of life,
And, with unspeakable content, Life's whole.
That love for love—that passion and that trust
That she, as he, is faithful even to death,
That she, like him, esteems all gain as dust,
And only labours for the glorious goal,
For the freed body and enfranchised soul:
To one dear end vows every part of life,
And, with unspeakable content, Life's whole.
And so we talk, contrive and plan and scheme,
That what once failed, may fail not to succeed;
How to convert the yearning to the dream,
How to translate the dream into the deed;
And when at last the time shall come, we three,
One now in soul, shall one in action be.
So says he—and she smiles; and I . . . O God,
If one must be a traitor, damn thou me!
That what once failed, may fail not to succeed;
How to convert the yearning to the dream,
How to translate the dream into the deed;
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One now in soul, shall one in action be.
So says he—and she smiles; and I . . . O God,
If one must be a traitor, damn thou me!
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