Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Those sober morns of spring are gone whose light
Made the leaves golden round the window-sill,
While pleasantly my task advanced from hour
To hour, until the last short page was full.
The kindling influence of the year just then
Had freed the butterfly, and the lightest breeze
Twirled its vacant winter-shell, to me
A sign and symbol, as I fondly deemed.
'Tis pleasant now in fair book-shape to see
What these sweet morns accomplished; be it small,
Yet still a landmark in life's paths, an alms
Saved from oblivion and an indolent past.
Perhaps within its fabric not one thread
Of gold is woven, and those thoughts that weighed
Upon me as a duty weighs, till speech
And action free the conscience from its claim,
Will be to others uninformed and null:
Perhaps the sheep may bleat, the small dogs bark,
And not one man's voice answer me at all.

167

So be it: on the waters cast I still
My bread, remembering it hath been to me
The bread of life according to my light,
For one full concord, one just harmony
Between the chords of lyre and heart rebuilds
The temple of the soul.

A labour still
Of love it hath been. With the name of love
It shall be sanctified, and unto thee,
Hopefullest friend! do I now send it: thou
Being the Mneme of past wandering years,
And I the hero of mine own romance.
Nor other reasons lack I, it may be,
Although they might not sound so grand and grave.
As this, a gentle critic wilt thou prove:
Or this, if flowers but seldom deck the field,
Thy love shall sow them broadcast.

But, no more;
Eros is the great master, and his law
It is we follow. Eros, child and God,
With unshorn tresses that no crown confines,
Teaches us much. This first; that the great lamp
Of Truth, whose naphtha needs no vestal's care,
Shines not with holier splendours in the crypts
Of book-philosophy and art-arcades,
Wherein th' ambitious arm themselves for fame,

168

As the Athenian youths girt up their hair
For the gymnasium, then in those dear bowers
Of our humanity where amaranth grows
With darnels, worts, and thistles. I have paused
Oft-times midway in some laborious scheme,
Asking myself the question,—What avails
This strife, acquiring, losing, when to gain
Or lose is non-essential, and but hangs
Upon the outer husks of life? Reply
Hath reached me from beyond our continent;
It was not I who toiled, cast off to-day
Yesterday's motives, stands unchanged the soul
The same as heretofore. Thus have I learned
To throw no dice with fortune; to remain
Spectator more than actor. Truth descends
Without our prayers and labour. Knowledge stands
Apart from throned wisdom. Trivial things
Minister oft like miracles, and reveal
The narrow path for which we've searched in vain
Through sleepless nights and over sloughs and seas.