Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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156
I.
I write to thee in cypher, even so
Doth not the heart write ever? being proud,
It careth not to boast its wealth, nor show
Where lie its precious things by speaking loud.
And here, upon my page an uncouth sign
Would say, “I love thee;” further down this mark
Shows plain, “for ever,” yet the sense is dark
To every eye that looks on it but thine.
So is it even with my heart, thine ear
Can catch each broken whisper it hath used;
So even with my life; thou makest clear
Its meaning, oft-times to myself confused;
The souls that use one mother-tongue are free
To mould their rapid speech, but when from thee
I turn to others, straight I have to choose
My words, as one who in a foreign dress
Must clothe his thought, speaks slow in fear to err,
Interpreting himself;
Doth not the heart write ever? being proud,
It careth not to boast its wealth, nor show
Where lie its precious things by speaking loud.
And here, upon my page an uncouth sign
Would say, “I love thee;” further down this mark
Shows plain, “for ever,” yet the sense is dark
To every eye that looks on it but thine.
So is it even with my heart, thine ear
Can catch each broken whisper it hath used;
So even with my life; thou makest clear
Its meaning, oft-times to myself confused;
The souls that use one mother-tongue are free
To mould their rapid speech, but when from thee
I turn to others, straight I have to choose
My words, as one who in a foreign dress
Must clothe his thought, speaks slow in fear to err,
Interpreting himself;
We do but guess
At one another darkly 'mid the stir
That thickens round us; in this life of ours
We are like players, knowing not the powers
Nor compass of the instruments we vex,
And by one rash, unskilful touch, perplex
To straining discord, needing still the key
To seek, and all our being heedfully
To tune to one another's:
At one another darkly 'mid the stir
That thickens round us; in this life of ours
We are like players, knowing not the powers
Nor compass of the instruments we vex,
And by one rash, unskilful touch, perplex
157
To seek, and all our being heedfully
To tune to one another's:
Ours were set
Together at the first; each hand could move
Like a skilled Master's, knowing well each fret
And chord of the sweet viol he doth love,
All up and down each other's soul, and yet,
Call forth new concords,—now with softer kiss
I move o'er other souls in fear to miss
Their latent charm; these too, if better known,
Were worthier prizing;
Love's great charity
Hath taught this lesson, as beside her knee
I stand, and child-like con it o'er and o'er,
“Through loving one so much love all the more.”
Together at the first; each hand could move
Like a skilled Master's, knowing well each fret
And chord of the sweet viol he doth love,
All up and down each other's soul, and yet,
Call forth new concords,—now with softer kiss
I move o'er other souls in fear to miss
Their latent charm; these too, if better known,
Were worthier prizing;
“Though I love my friends dearly, and though they are good, I have, however, much to pardon, except in the single Klopstock alone. He is good, really good—good in all the foldings of his heart. I know him, and sometimes I think if we knew others in the same manner, the better we should find them. For it may be that an action displeases us which would please us if we knew its true aim and whole extent.”—From the Letters of Meta Klopstock.
Hath taught this lesson, as beside her knee
I stand, and child-like con it o'er and o'er,
“Through loving one so much love all the more.”
| Poems | |