The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

I do not blame thee, Hilda; did not blame thee even then
When all my life fell dark, and all my way was hard to see;
And when I drifted, aimless, among clear-purposed men,
Though often wroth at myself, I could never be wroth with thee.

Where art thou, where, my darling? for thou art my darling still,
So gladsome and so winsome, and in beauty so complete!
The old home is as you left it, waiting for my Love to fill
Her corner by the fireside, or the sunny window seat.

But nevermore thou comest, though evermore I go
Where thoughts of thee shall meet me as a sure-returning pain;
I cannot keep from that which only keeps alive my woe,
And I would not keep from it until thou comest back again.

Lonely now the old familiar walks beside the brattling brooks,
And lone with awful silence are the evening hours I sit;
I think I should go mad, but for the trick of writing books,
Though I care but for the writing, not for that which I have writ.

Dead is all the old ambition; dead the heart to lettered fame,
Though the humour have its pranks yet, and the fancy will have play;
I heed not for the Public praise, nor for the Critic's blame,
Nor for the larger shadow that I cast upon my way.

Oh, my rose was only budding when I laid it on my breast,
And I watched the leaves unfolding, and the tender blushes flit;
Now my rose is broke and withered—and I broke it whom it blest—
Yet the fragrance haunts my life still, and is all that sweetens it.

No, I do not blame you, Hilda; we were both of us so young,
And I had a peremptory way, ungracious, unbeseeming,
And a petulant hot humour, and an often silent tongue
Which you thought betokened anger when my mind was only dreaming.

But I had no right to dream when I was called to play the man,
And to cherish, with fond love, the love that put its trust in me:
Better lose the wayward Artist in the drudging Artisan
Than take the yoke of love, and live as free among the free.

147

And oh, how could I mar, with one unsettling doubt, the Faith
Which consecrated all the homely duty of her days,
And winged quick seeds of hope beyond the bounding wall of death
To make a life Eternal, full of peace and full of praise?

Who would take from any weary head the pillow of its rest,
Smoothed by a mother's hand, and leave it so to ache and throb?
Or break beneath the unfledged soul the shaped and sheltering nest,
And bid it on the bare bough sing, when it can only sob?

But we wake in the young morning when the light is breaking forth,
And look out on its misty gleams, as if the noon were full;
And the Infinite, around, seems but a larger kind of earth
Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy rule.

And doubtful shadows come and go, and we, of nothing sure,
Have yet no qualms in trifling with a tranquil faith and true!
Ay me! it was her quiet faith that made her heart so pure,
Yet I troubled its calm waters with the wanton stones I threw.

But oh, I loved you, Hilda, and will love you evermore;
I cannot choose but love you, be the anguish what it will,
For the very pain of loving is all other joys before:
Though you broke my heart in pieces, every bit would love you still.

Though you broke my heart in pieces, I would love you more than all
Who might seek to bind it up again; for love alone can bind
What only love can break; and all the fragments broken small
Would but glass as many Hildas in the mirror of my mind.

What memories gather round me, sitting by the lonely hearth!
They will not leave the house, those flitting ghosts of other days;—
Here a whispering, there a rustling, or an echo of old mirth,
Or a face out of the darkness with a sad, rebuking gaze.

Ah me, but to remember how I placed you with your back
Against the old wych-elm tree in the golden summer tide,
As we went, with slate and satchel, down the dim, green Lovers' Walk,
And half in fear, and half in jest, you vowed to be my bride!

But with me it was right earnest; I exulted from that day
That mine thou wert, and mine alone, and ever must be mine;
And I played protector grandly if our schoolmates in their play
Did but touch thy finger roughly, or lift their eyes to thine.

Oh, had we ne'er as children played together in the street,
Never waded in the burns, nor plaited rushes on the lea,
Never busked us with the bluebells, never chanced on earth to meet,
Till we looked upon each other when our Love had eyes to see!

148

For cousinship will hardly grow to perfect wedded love;
There lacks the charm of wonder, and the mystery of fear;
It fits too easy on us, like a worn, familiar glove,
And we tend it not so nicely, though we hold it all as dear.

I cannot but remember—we were still but girl and boy—
That night we went to buy the ring, how fain we were to linger,
Half-afraid and half-ashamed to ask about the mystic toy,
And how they all slipped loosely up and down the taper-finger.

Then our cottage, and the garden with the sea-pink borders! Now,
I bethink me, we came to it ere the apple-blossom fell,
And the bloom was on our love as the bloom was on the bough,
And there was singing in the trees, and in our hearts as well—

Singing of our happy fancies, singing of our joyous hopes!
All our life was filled with singing, as the skylark fills the sky:
Oh the music of that gladness, in our hearts and in the copse,
Swelling with a tender sweetness, and the peace that came thereby!

Then, the lengthening summer twilights, as we looked down on the river
Gleaming silvery in the shallows, glooming darkly in the pools!
And the silent, sleepy village, with its blue smoke curling ever—
Welcome sight to weary labour plodding homeward with its tools!

And the tall green cones of poplar that around the kirkyard stood,
And the gilded weather-cock that flashed the sunlight from the spire,
And the red glow on the window panes; and then the quiet mood
That came on with the stars, and drew us closer to the fire!

I would not but remember those welcome, winsome hours
That crowned the day's fit labour with fit recompense of rest,
And how we watched the laden bees amid the honeyed flowers:
Yet I hardly seemed at home in life, but somehow like a guest.

There was a feeling haunted me, that all might be untrue—
An unreal, phantom idyl—an illusion of the brain;
It did not look like fact, but like a dream that only knew
The lawlessness of Fancy, and had banished grief and pain.

So passed in tender bliss the weeks and months of love and peace,
And I wondered when I should awake, and find the dream was gone;
So passed the year and day, and still the wonder did not cease,
Although there came a frustrate hope that left us still alone.

So passed the time in services of love and patient duty,
And there was no cloud of trouble, and no fret of wearing strife;
And still its memories cling to me, and clothe with dreams of beauty,
As with ivy green and wallflower, the dim ruin of my life.

149

For it is a dim, grey ruin where no cheerful work is done,
Nor sound of gladness heard, but only moaning of the wind,
And lonely desolation sits aweary of the sun,
With little caring for myself, and little for my kind.

I know that that is wrong; that it is weak to yield to it;
That manhood has its duty even when life is cold and grey—
Duty never half so noble, nor so strengthening and fit,
As when the clouds have gathered thick, and darkened all the day.

I plead not for myself; I know that I am weak and poor,
A creature of the sunshine, and my sunshine was so brief:
I have no heart to struggle now; I only can endure,
And let the tide sweep on, as I sit clinging to my grief.

What was it, first, that broke the spell, and showed that we were twain—
United, and yet sundered by a strain of character?
A trifle, yet it smote me with a disappointing pain
Sharper than a grief more real, for it marred my thought of her.

I had a fond ambition, and she did not share in it;
I thought to make her famous, and she did not care for fame;
And I often sat a-dreaming, and watched the moonbeams flit
With the river flickering through them, and its ripple all aflame.

Bit from days of early childhood with the love of rhythmic song,
I had yet a curious shame for that which was my secret pride,
And would hide my work in midnight, as if doing something wrong,
Though I hoped the world would yet admire the thing I strove to hide.

How I covered reams of paper! how I treasured every scrap!
I might outgrow the fancy, yet was loath to let it go:
How I watched the moods of Nature, as I lay upon her lap,
And she spoke to me by flowers and birds, and streams that murmured low!

The winter and the summer and the morning and the night,
All seasons and all creatures brought her messages to me;
I loved the very newt that crawled among the lilies bright,
And the tiger-branded wasp, and the drowsy yellow bee.

And the silence of the mountains spoke unutterable things;
And the sounding of the ocean was as silence in my soul;
And close to me, and conscious, lying warm as brooding wings,
Lay the Mystery of mysteries that quickeneth the whole.

I was glancing only lately at those stiff and futile rhymes,
Where half-formed thought was struggling for the forms of perfect Art,
And thinking how I treasured them, and read them many times;
And even then to burn them, somehow went against my heart.

150

Poor stuff they are enow—a drift of dry and shrivelled weed,
Marking where once the tide of froth and flying scud had been;
Yet will I keep this fragment, for scrawled on it I read,
“My husband's nicest verses, though I scarce know what they mean”:—

Contrasts

Twain are they, sundered each from each,
Though oft together they are brought;
Discoursing in a common speech,
Yet having scarce a common thought;
The same sun warmed them all their days,
They breathe one air of life serene;
Yet, moving on their several ways,
They walk with a whole world between.

I think they never meet without
Some sharp encounter of their wits;
And neither hints a faith or doubt,
The other does not take to bits;
For what the one regards with awe,
The other holds a creed outworn;
And what this boasts as perfect law,
That turns to laughter with his scorn.

No envious grudge is in their hearts,
Detracting from the honour due
To nobler worth, or greater parts,
Or larger grasp, or clearer view:
Simply there is a gulf between
Their ways of life, and modes of thought,
And nothing is by either seen
But as the other likes it not.

With vision keen and thought complete
Cool-headed Warham holds his way,
And all that lies about his feet
He makes it his, and clear as day;
All common things of natural birth
He sets forth in a novel sense;
But never leaves the common earth
To seek the dim Omnipotence.

He gathers knowledge hour by hour,
Forgetting nought that once he knew,
And handling it with conscious power
As matter certified and true;
And all he knows gives added might
That still with harder thought combines;
We wonder at the shining light,
He wonders less the more it shines!

He has slight pity for our pain,
For weakness, he has none at all;
He is not proud, he is not vain;
He is not either great or small;
But he is strong and hard and clear
As is a frosty winter day,
And never sheds an idle tear,
Nor flings an idle word away.

He cannot breathe but in the breath
Of certainty and knowledge clear;
And where we have to walk by Faith
He will not go; or will not fear
To search into the mysteries,
And bid the haunting shadows go;
And yet, with all he knows and sees,
True wisdom somehow does not grow.

But Cromer is of finer make,
And doth with subtler thoughts commune—
Thoughts singing oft in dim daybreak,
And silent oft in blaze of noon;
He sees the process Warham saw,
But to the Power he is not blind,
Beholds the working of the Law,
And bows to that which lies behind.

Seeking what knife can ne'er dissect,
Nor flame-wrapt blowpipe can set free,
Nor chemic test can e'er detect,
But only kindred mind can see,

151

He finds in everything a light
Which, shunning finest power of sense,
Does more to make a man of might
Than knowledge of the Why or Whence.

And much he knows, and much he thinks,
But he is more than all he knows;
For still aspiring, still he drinks
Fresh inspiration as he goes,
More careful that the man should grow
Than that the mind should understand:
He loves all creatures here below,
And touches all with tender hand.

He pities all the pained and weak,
And feels for their unhappy fate;
Simple and true and brave and meek,
He does not know that he is great;
He looks to heaven with wondering gaze,
And earth with awe by him is trod;
We marvel at the words he says,
He, at the silences of God.

Thus on their several ways they go,
And neither other comprehends,
Yet it was God that made them so,
And they do serve His several ends;
That seeks for light to walk in it,
And this for God to live in Him;
One questions with a searching wit,
The other trusts where all is dim.

Why quarrel with their several parts,
Where each is good if one is best?
And who shall say that this departs,
Restful, unto Eternal rest,
While he who loves the light goes down
Into the darkness of the night?—
Life grows unto its perfect crown,
And light unto a larger light.

I often spoke to Hilda of the poetry that lay
In all the rich and wondrous life that compassed us about,
At the firesides of the people, in the wild-flowers by the way,
In our trials, and our sorrows, in our Faith too, and our doubt.

But she did not care for verses; thought all poets must be poor;
And would rather some more money than be sung about in rhyme:
Yet she kissed my cheek and forehead, and vowed that she was sure
I should write a name immortal 'mong the great ones of the time.

Oh, she knew that she was stupid; how I ever came to wed
Such a silly girl as she was, she never could make out;
But she could not keep the garden, if I would have every bed
Free for birds and beasts and creatures to write poetry about.

It was nice to hear the throstles answering on the evening breeze,
And to watch the short, sharp rushes of the blackbird on the lawn;
But there would not be a cherry left upon the loaded trees,
And the pease were black with cawing rooks about the early dawn.

A shadow fell on me at this; for love, young love, had thrown
A glamour all about her, wreathed a glory round her face,
Sought in her high inspiration; and one does not like to own
That his dream is somewhat faded, and a little commonplace.

152

Vexed, and slightly disappointed!—still our love was fond and true,
And trustful and sufficing; so it did not matter much;
But I sat the more alone, and hid my labour from her view,
For I felt the poet's shrinking from unsympathetic touch.

And my speech grew shallow to her, and my feeling oft was spent
In small enforcèd humour to laugh poetry away;
And crackling jests would flicker round the higher sentiment,
Turning pathos into laughter, and earnest into play.

Of course, it was not good for me; but I could shelter her,
Belying my own nature; and I scrupled not at that,
If I might but dream in secret when the owlets were astir,
And hooted from the ivy to the moon-bewildered bat.

And just on this point only there was silence 'twixt us twain;
But silence bringeth sorrow where the trust should be complete;
Love likes not shallow mirth, too; and a fear sprang up amain,
That in the deeper life of life we yet might fail to meet.

Not that spinning rhymes and verses is the deeper life of life,
Though it may be a true fashion which that deeper life shall wear;
But if heart must mate with heart to make the husband and the wife,
Mind should also match with mind to make the perfect wedded pair.

Not so with me and Hilda; there was love, and nothing more:
But some ballads I had written, brought me praise and also pay;
Then she changed her mind about them, as she tinkled o'er and o'er
The little store of guineas that had dropt upon her way.

Surely welcome were the guineas; but I had not writ for gold,
And the gold was all she cared for, and I could have cursed the thing;
But she had the care of housekeeping, and troubles manifold,
That were bound upon her spirit by the slender marriage-ring.

I should have thought of that, for it was burdening her youth—
Her youth that never knew a care until she came to me;
But I only saw that everything went orderly and smooth,
And wist not of the frets and fears of small economy.

Then, the handling of those guineas seemed to turn her little head;
She was sure that I could write a score of better songs a week,
And she need not vex her heart about the milk-books, or the bread,
Or the men that came with nasty bills, and looked so sharp and sleek.

And she wanted something pretty—a bit of ornament,
A dress, or some fresh furnishing to brighten up a room;
And we named them quaintly after, each, its poem, as we spent
The little roll of gold that made her life to bud and bloom.

153

“Noche Triste,” was a ballad of the fall of Mexico,
And also a chintz curtain in our little parlour hung;
And a band of scarlet ribbon, knotted up into a bow,
Had its name of “English Harold” from a song that I had sung.

Trifles! yet they lit our home with lamps of sweet significance,
Made every chamber live, and put a soul in chairs and stools,
That linked them with our highest, as the moonbeams where they glance
Silver with heavenly beauty even the common water-pools.

Trifles! little homely trifles; fireside jests that lose their way
Out of doors; yet what a pathos in their memory may dwell!
For I thought my heart would break when I came but yesterday
On that rag of scarlet ribbon fastening up the jargonelle.

Twice-paid I deemed my verses when the trifle they had brought
Brightened her evening muslin then, and made her face to shine;
And now it all came back to point the misery of our lot,
As with a twice-told sorrow, in that ribbon's fate and mine.

Hilda scarcely read my verses, never sang a song of mine,
Though her voice was like a plaintive bird's, and thrilled you through and through;
I have wept to hear her evening hymn, or Psalm with crabbèd line,
Ring through the open casement as the stars lit up the blue.

But she scarcely read my verses; even some that I had writ
Of our wooing and our wedding, gave her but a passing thought;
I was pleased to see her pleased, but still there was a sting in it,
When she prized my labour only for the thing that it had bought.

Yet I would not be disheartened; my purpose only rose
The higher, and my fancies were but cherished more and more;
I would seek out fresher fountains whose living water flows,
Unnoticed, in a land where song had rarely been before.

I would sing the life I saw—the world that lay about our door;
Its passion and its longing, its error and its sin:
It was fresh, if rather sunless, and it deepened more and more
As I tilled the field whose harvest I was fain to gather in.

Thus, long and late I brooded, well resolved to make my mark
On the great age we live in, and my silence deeper grew;
I went musing in the day-time, and sat mooning in the dark,
And the rush of sudden fancies made my slumbers broken too.

For the vision grew upon me, the more I did attain,
Dwarfing still my poor achievement with some glimpse of nobler fruit;
I scarce had caught a measure when some diviner strain,
A-singing sweetly in my heart, would sing the other mute.

154

Those were days of rich invention, like fresh goldfields, when they find
Nuggets studding the first spadeful, grains that yellow all the sand;
One has by and by to crush the quartz—to grind the barren mind,
And pick a little precious thought with weary heart and hand.

But those were fruitful times, when thought ran faster than the pen,
And moulds of quaint invention shaped a hundred dainty strains,
As I touched with playful fancy the odd characters of men,
With kindly humours in their hearts, or maggots in their brains.

If I have won a little niche—I know it is but small
In Fame's proud temple, it was then I won it, being true,
And sparing not myself, and without effort natural,
And singing ever from my heart, and only what I knew.

For mine eye was opened wide to all the glory and the beauty,
And also to the error, and the failure, and the strife;
My heart had tasted sorrow, as it clung to love and duty,
And I felt my art was deepened with the deepening of my life.

I sought about among the common facts of common day,—
What chanced me in a corner, or what met me in a crowd,—
For the undertones of pathos murmuring softly by the way,
Or quaint, droll humours, mirthful with a laughter never loud.

I cared not for the converse of Respectability,
Choosing rather the blank Innocent that sauntered down the street,
Singing the broken fragment of some weird old melody,
As he drifted, to and fro, with vagrant thought and aimless feet.

All the smug and well-conditioned, growing rich and growing stout,
And the men that fussed and wrangled about the Kirk and State,
And genteel, superior people, dressing well and dining out,
I found them very dull, though their content was very great.

I stored up thoughts and pictures; for I knew that Art is long,
That you cannot rear a temple like a hut of sticks and turf;
But I did not think what perils on a woman's life may throng,
Sitting lonely with her thoughts that chafe and murmur like the surf.

Ever more and more absorbed, I hardly noted as they came
The changing moods, the chills, the frets that daily did increase;
I would dig the deep foundations of a long-abiding Fame,
And wist not that they undermined my home of love and peace.

Ah me! that hungry passion! and it looked so innocent!
A minister of love, belike, to brighten all our day,
To gild the petty care of life, and homely incident,
As we sat like summer birds, and sang our troubles all away!

155

And yet it was self-seeking, let me paint it as I will,
But the poet's eager craving for the vanity of Fame,
But the witchery of Art enchanted with its own sweet skill,
Seeking less to better life, than just to make itself a name.

And perchance she saw its shallowness as I did by and by,
And was truer to the fact, in all her seeming commonplace,
And the simple, homely method of her quiet life, than I
With my thoughts away in dreamland, and its haze about my face.

For I have not won the glory which I lost my peace to gain;
The critic world has praised me in a kindly sort of way,
But I have not struck a chord that thrilled the common heart of men,
Nor blazed forth as a star upon the forefront of the day.

And yet the passion hankers in me, not to be gainsaid,
In spite of all misgiving, and the verdict of the crowd,
And I do not care for poverty, neglect, or little bread,
If I may but spin my verses, though I only spin my shroud.

That was the first night-frost that blanched our young life's tender bloom:
Not much; and we had love enough to throw it off, had I
But taken thought of the pale face that in the silent room
Turned ever to the kirkyard with a tear-dimmed, weary eye:

Turned ever to the kirkyard where the little grave was green
That buried her young hope, and made her motherhood a wail,
Silent and yet unceasing, for the bliss that might have been,
But now was lying in a shroud, and nailed with coffin-nail.

I did take thought a little then; and brought an old school friend
To cheer her in her sorrow—but the girl was hard as steel,
Who tried, I fear, to mar the peace I hoped that she would mend,
And blended coldest sceptic thought with strangely burning zeal:

A girl so unlike Hilda that I wot not how they drew
Together for a moment—sharp-witted, and without
An atmosphere around her mind; but many things she knew,
And had not any light of faith, nor any shade of doubt.

Of course we did not know it; but it was unlucky fate
That brought into my life then such a thread of unbelief,
Confirming troubled fancies that had come to me of late,
And brooded o'er my life with dim foreboding of new grief.

For pondering, as I could, the things around me, I began
To piece them bit by bit into some pattern of clear thought;
And lo! they grew too fast to fit into my little plan,
And squared not with the hard and narrow faith that I had got.

156

I had worn my baby-creed, just, as a thing of course, till now,
Unthinking if it fitted on the grown man as the child;
My mother made it for me when the yet unshadowed brow
Was crowned with sunny curls, and the young soul was undefiled.

But it was a thing apart from me, and compassed round with dread;
Unquestioned and unsearched, it lay bathed in an awful light,
Sacred as writ which had been sealed by the belovèd dead,
And beautiful with memories of piety and right.

But now my mind was darkened o'er with dim, disturbing doubt,
And many roots of faith appeared to strike no further down
Than customary thoughts that I had never reasoned out,
Nor felt their pressure on my soul to own them, or disown.

Could any juggling art transfer the sin that I had done,
Unto another soul, and give his innocence to me?
Could any claim of other's right be mine to stand upon,
And urge His sinless sorrow as my justifying plea?

And could I think the world lay all beneath the wrath of God,
Seeing it folded in His light, and kept with tender care?
Or that the Father's love could grasp an everlasting rod,
Nor falter as it hearkened to the wail of dim despair?

Could every heart be wholly wicked, every soul untrue,
As if it were a spark from hell that kindled all desire?
Could all be set to rights again when God had gleaned a few,
While the harvest of the nations was faggoted for fire?

At first I feared the venturous thought, and laid it quick aside;
But still it would return, although in other form it came.—
Is He not ever merciful who loved us all, and died,
Gracious to-day and yesterday, and evermore the same?

Trembling, I fluttered to and fro, like moth about the flame,
Now saying, “It is light, and I must come unto the light”:
Then pausing, for the moth unto a swift destruction came,
When, curious for the light, it left the dim and dusky night.

I think it did not grow to be strong-hearted faith in me;
I only dared to doubt, and then made pictures of my doubt;
This way the better reason drew that I might clearly see;
That way old custom dragged, and bade me cast the reason out.

So wave on wave arose, and burst, and eddied back again,
But still the tide swelled higher till it covered all the beach;
I saw old landmarks vanish, yet that smote me not with pain,
Nor leaped my heart with gladness at the truth it hoped to reach.

157

I longed for light; but all the light I found was second-hand;
Reflected thought that had been tossed about, for ages past,
From surface-minds that vainly claimed alone to understand
The mystery of the Light that is like shadow on us cast.

They say that doubt is weak; but yet, if life be in the doubt,
The living doubt is more than Faith that life did never know;
Pulp and jelly of the shell-fish, clasped in bony mail without,
Crack the joinings and the sutures that the life within may grow.

Could I have just believed with all my heart and soul and mind!
But faith was slowly breaking up, and parting like a cloud,
And yet the light that through the rifts was glancing from behind,
Looked sickly in the wavering mist that wrapped it like a shroud.

A zone of large indifference, then, I made, where easy hope
Linked faith and unfaith, arm in arm, and sung along the road;
All would somehow yet come right—at least, I did not mean to mope,
If I could not feel the lightness, yet I would not feel the load.

God was larger than the creeds: they were the cunning compromise
For unanimous decision of the many and the few;
Rafts that leaked at every log, so loose the binding of their ties:
But they floated, and the thoughtless held that therefore they were true.

This was the one decree, that God should yet be all in all,
And in the Christ would reconcile all things in earth and heaven,
And a new Paradise arise more glorious from the Fall,
And bread of life be sweeter, raised from sin's disturbing leaven.

By and by, I hinted lightly at this dawning hope of mine
To Hilda, in a quaint conceit of ballad rudely rhymed:
It put her friend in raptures, and she vowed it most divine,
But it seemed a sorry jest to her, and wicked and ill-timed.

Well; it was a foolish trifle, burnt well-nigh as soon as writ,
A dream of death, and how all life shall come to fulness then,
And how the love that sweetens earth, and mirth that brightens it
Could never darken Heaven, for God had given them unto men.

Was it strange, when Hilda frowned, that I should turn me to her friend,
Who clapped her hands, ecstatic, and would have me read again?
Perhaps she overdid it; and it turned out in the end
That she was false and faithless—but I did not know her then.

Maybe, I should have seen that there was nothing in my rhyme
To lift up eyes of worship, softly swimming in a tear,
Or to part the eager lips with breath-less rapture, all the time,
As the humour of the dreamer dropt upon the listening ear.

158

No doubt, she overdid it, turning up her thin, brown face
With the dark eyes and eager; I had called her Caberfae,
She looked so like a startled deer that, in a lonely place,
Lifts her head among the bracken at the dawning of the day.

And somehow, after that, she filled my life up, as the tide
Creeps, beneath the waving tangles, up the sloping, shingly shore,
And along the quiet sands, and softly lapping at your side,
Girds about you ere you wot, and is behind you and before.

She would look through books of reference, and mark the places right,
And copy papers nicely, and be useful fifty ways;
And sometimes on the darkling thought would glance a piercing light,
Or with woman's nice suggestion touch a sentiment or phrase.

I looked to her for sympathy, I leant on her for aid;
Fanatical for Reason, still she loved the poet's Art,
Or vowed she loved it dearly; and how cleverly she played,
With artillery of praise upon the outworks of the heart!

Ere long, I did not care to hear her raptures for they came
To be mere ejaculations, monotonous, without
Any critical discernment; and I felt a growing shame
At the lauds which she kept singing, and the things they were about.

And, besides, my floating doubts, which were like mists that slowly trail
O'er the mountains, adding mystery and grandeur to their shapes,
Were in her a chilling drizzle, or a driving sleet and hail,
Hiding sun and moon and stars, and all the shining seas and capes.

I could not cast her off, but yet I heeded not how soon
She took herself away now, with that bitter sneer of hers;
She was as coldly chaste as are “the glimpses of the moon,”
But she laughed at all the faiths of men, and all their characters.

And I saw that Hilda pined away—she did not fret nor frown,
But whatever our discourse, she let a pallid silence linger
On her lips from hour to hour, while moving slowly up and down,
From knuckle to the point, the marriage-ring upon her finger.

For Hilda had a faith serene, clear as the evening star,
Keen-piercing through the changeful glow with its unchanging gleam,
Wheeling in some calm zone where neither doubts nor tremors are,
Nor shadowy, dim misgivings, that perchance we only dream.

And now she was amazed because old Faiths broke up in me,
With little feeling of a loss, or hope of higher gain,
With little sense of sorrow or regret or poverty,
But she beheld the change with fear and shivering and pain.