Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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SILENCE. |
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170
SILENCE.
I turn unto the Past
When I have need of comfort; I am vowed
To dear remembrances: most like some proud,
Poor Noble, who, on evil fortunes cast,
Has saved his pictures from the wreck, I muse
Mid these that I have gathered, till I lose
The drearness of the Present!
When I have need of comfort; I am vowed
To dear remembrances: most like some proud,
Poor Noble, who, on evil fortunes cast,
Has saved his pictures from the wreck, I muse
Mid these that I have gathered, till I lose
The drearness of the Present!
On the hill
That noon in summer found us; far below
We heard the river in a slumbrous flow
Chide o'er its pebbles, slow and yet more slow;
Beneath our feet the very grasses slept,
Signed by the sliding sunbeam as it crept
From blade to blade, slow-stealing with a still
Admonitory gesture; now a thrill
Ran lightly through the wood, but ere to sound
The shiver grew upon the hush profound,
It died encalmed; methought a Spirit's sigh
Had then been audible, but none came by
To trouble us, and we were silent, fed
With golden musings by our friend that read
From out thy chosen Poet; in a hall
Of mute expectancy we stood, where all
That listened with us held their breath unstirred;
When suddenly the reader's voice let fall
Its flow of music; sweet as was the song
He paused in, conquered by a spell more strong,
We asked him not its cadence to recall.
It seemed as if a Thought of God did fill
His World, that drawn unto the Father's breast,
Lay hush'd with all its children. This was Rest,
And this the soul's true Sabbath, deep and still.
Then marvelled I no longer that a space
Is found in Heaven for Silence; so to me
That hour made known its true sufficiency,
Revealed not oft below, because its place
Is with the Blessed! Speech is but a part
Of Life's deep poverty, whereof the heart
Is conscious, striving in its vague unrest
To fill its void; but when the measure pressed
And running over to its clasp is given,
It seeketh nothing more, and Earth is blest
With Silence—even such as is in Heaven!
That noon in summer found us; far below
We heard the river in a slumbrous flow
Chide o'er its pebbles, slow and yet more slow;
Beneath our feet the very grasses slept,
Signed by the sliding sunbeam as it crept
From blade to blade, slow-stealing with a still
Admonitory gesture; now a thrill
Ran lightly through the wood, but ere to sound
The shiver grew upon the hush profound,
It died encalmed; methought a Spirit's sigh
Had then been audible, but none came by
To trouble us, and we were silent, fed
With golden musings by our friend that read
171
Of mute expectancy we stood, where all
That listened with us held their breath unstirred;
When suddenly the reader's voice let fall
Its flow of music; sweet as was the song
He paused in, conquered by a spell more strong,
We asked him not its cadence to recall.
It seemed as if a Thought of God did fill
His World, that drawn unto the Father's breast,
Lay hush'd with all its children. This was Rest,
And this the soul's true Sabbath, deep and still.
Then marvelled I no longer that a space
Is found in Heaven for Silence; so to me
That hour made known its true sufficiency,
Revealed not oft below, because its place
Is with the Blessed! Speech is but a part
Of Life's deep poverty, whereof the heart
Is conscious, striving in its vague unrest
To fill its void; but when the measure pressed
And running over to its clasp is given,
It seeketh nothing more, and Earth is blest
With Silence—even such as is in Heaven!
| Poems | |