University of Virginia Library

XVII.

[When in the blaze of life I see old mates]

Debtor and creditor, how stands my account?
A drudging clerk—most helpless trade!—condemn'd,
For bread, to give my all, my golden hours,
From morn, up through the day into the night,
Unearthing old accounts in ill-kept books,
Brain-rack'd with balances, sear'd with per cents,
Buried in bills, cash, interest and goods:
Perhaps for one who, if he could, would turn

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77

The whole earth with its beauty into cash,
All mankind but himself, their loves and hopes,
Fine aspirations, deep inventions—all,
Would realize in cash, and grasp the whole;
Who grudges breathing-time, feeds on the toil
Of servants, brain and body, gloats as if
Each drop of sweat came out a golden coin,
And all for him; whose avaricious soul
Knows not the taste of peace, but quakes in fear
Of bankruptcies, embezzlements and ruin;
Who chuckles oft, and grins, but cannot laugh,
For very want of room about his heart.

So much for that side. On the other stand—

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A mind that hates all bondage, and owns none,
But, 'mid life's hard necessities, lives free
From all that slaves the thought;—an open love
For all the forms of being, finding good
In tavern and temple, sinner and saint;
Deep joy within the courts of Heaven; light joy—
If sadness too—along the flaunting streets;—
An appetite for Beauty, that devours
Nature's and Art's rich feasts, and yet can live
Upon their simplest meals—the dusty ray
That briefly slants at noon across my desk,
Like God's enchanting wand, a touch from Heaven—
The happy smoke, from sooty dens let free
To sail away into the sea of light—
The myriad reflex of the painter's dreams
Shop windows freely give—and wandering notes
Of street musician, be they e'er so rude;—
A sweet immunity from avarice,
Which reckons that, at least, if nothing's gain'd,
No thought, no toil is lost in the attempt;—
The economy that never can be poor,
But richer grows by lessening its wants;—
Rare health, impervious to the damps of life,
Social and physical—from battering storms
Shaking my feathers for another flight;—
A deepening belief in Right and Truth,
That they are not our thought, but from above—
The moral gravity that sways events
To highest good, however bad they seem;—
The love of books, which finds in them the gold

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That buys up all conditions;—above all,
A share in that fine alchymy whose touch
Reveals the God in all things, gives the peace
That passeth understanding.—These I note
Of personal inheritance. Then comes
This item out of self; a happy home—
A small, poor home, but O how rich to me!
Enrich'd by one who sheds around the hearth
Perpetual summer, flowering into love;
And little busy hearts that round her swarm,
Half hid in folds, like bees in smothering blooms;
An Eden to my soul, and when at morn
I leave, I straight begin to long for even.