II.
PART II
HEAVEN
XXXIII. NOT TOO LONG
O Dante, breathe upon us, that the race
Be perfect and eternal in pure love!
And, Beatrice, thy golden wings above
Our womanhood be calm and quick to place;
Ah! let thy lips and the unforgotten face
Lean over us and bring us into peace.
Have we not loved, and is there no release?
And didst thou leave thy Dante without grace,
To linger, and to struggle, and to sigh?
O Dante, make us worthy, make us strong:
And, Beatrice, be pitiful, be nigh;
And, Dante, burn our passion into song,
And grant that it be sweet, but not too long,
Lest, inadvertent, we let death go by.
XXXIV. FOR YOUR SAKE
For your sake, sweet, I long to stretch my hands
Into the future, filled with flowers of thought,—
To scatter these wild grasses I have brought
In summers of far-distant times and lands.
To close with Fate who wrestles and withstands
In passionate haste my eagerness has sought,
If haply I might mould or fashion aught
Equal to cold eternity's demands.
For your sake I would have the people say,
“Here was a poet, and he loved, and she
Was beautiful and tender as the day—”
For your sake I would have my memory stay,
That the hair I wrote soft words about may be
Black-brown for ever, when my own is grey.
XXXV. THE LAST SACRIFICE
I have given you love and labour without measure,
And many fruits and flowers from out my hands,
And robbed imagination's dainty lands,
If so I might, with a gold touch of pleasure,
Be as a sunbeam brightening your leisure,
And you might wind your hair in statelier bands:
And you have given me—a few stray sands—
To cherish, and to ponder on, and treasure.
These things I have given you—life, and toil, and trouble,
And laurels, and the whisper of a name,
And many a blood-red sacrifice of flame,
And daily aspiration of pure breath;
I can but give you now my lungs' last bubble,—
There is only left the sacrifice of death.
XXXVI. LOVE'S UNITY
There cannot be two true loves, for the soul
Is smitten by the unity of God
And blooms but once, whether on heaven's sod
Or where the waves of earth's salt craving roll.
But once in an existence shall the whole
Of any heart be sweet between the hands
Of Love,—but once, the vision of fair lands
And far-off Canaanitish meadows stole
Across the enraptured gaze of Moses; he
Was only once permitted to draw near
To God upon the mountain-top and see,
As the blue spaces, distant and austere,
Are sundered by the branches of a tree,
God's image outlined beautifully clear.
XXXVII. THE RESURRECTION OF THOUGHT
In some clear mood of mind, when thought is free,
I see the past transfigured into light,
And every flower is present and as bright
As when my lady's breath was sweet with me,
And hands were sweet, and mingled words,—when we
Bathed in the silver fountains of the night,
And watched the maiden moon's unfolded might
Stream over the illimitable sea.
And then I know that I shall not forget,
Though time with his imperishable palm
Press seething reminiscence into calm,
The face of any single flower we met;
Nor any tear wherewith your lids were wet,
When even folded round us wings of balm.
XXXVIII. THE NEXT KISS
I am not eager, having twice been bold
To stem the torrent of the stream of love,
Again to test those wavelets till, above,
The river is translated into gold.
Love is a bird too beautiful to hold
In any untransfigured earthly hand,
And sings the sweeter from the heavenly land
In that our feet are hidden in grasses cold.
I am not eager, though the nights are long
And doleful, to renew love's magic thrill
And ancient tenderness of silver song,
For well I know that when I reach the hill
Towards which I journey firm of foot and strong,
Love's next apocalyptic kiss will kill.
XXXIX. MORTAL
Once clear and white the mortal woman came
And softly filled the silent yearning room
With a superb exuberance of bloom,
A force of sweetness burning like a flame.
My soul leapt forth, her passionate soul to claim:
A sense as of her presence smote the gloom:
I saw her eyes, and heard her lips say, “Come!”
I rose, and almost called her by her name.
She filled the room; and, as for me, I wept
And closed my eyes and opened them again
To find her still before me,—then I slept:
But through my sleep I felt upon my brain
Her hands drip gently like a roseleaf rain,
Conscious of the unending watch she kept.
XL. IMMORTAL
Now clear and white the immortal woman shines,
Pervading with sweet roses of her hands,
And violets of her bosom, and dark strands
Of endless overflowing hair she twines,
Not any room, but the blue dim-seen lines
Of hills, and misty spaces of the air,
And rivers, and brown forests, and the fair
And murmuring interstices of pines,
And larches, and green hollows of the beech:
As a sweet single star she shone before,
But now she fills the multitudinous shore
Plain in the wet reflected orb of each,
And I can winnow silver grains of speech
From ocean's indistinguishable roar.
XLI. THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE
Once Love was plain before me, for at night,
Sleeping, my eyes were sundered, and, awake,
Like some sweet moon reflected in a lake,
Surrounded with a silver stream of light,
I saw my lady's presence flame in sight,
And, after, came a sense of roses cast
In soft encompassing luxuriance fast
Over my silent body, and a bright
And strange unveiling of the spirit's form
And immortality made visible:
And death and sin and feebleness and hell,
Being black, shone white beneath the fragrant storm
Of snows that clothed her body sweet and warm,
And every tower of separation fell.
XLII. CLEANSING
I dreamed a sudden dream, and was aware
Of my lost goddess bending over me,
And of some magic echo of the sea,
And strange outpouring of remembered hair;
And round me flowed, as an electric air
Of crystal and surpassing purity,
A woman's breath, and clothed exultantly
My body in a raiment soft and fair.
And every sin she lightly blew away,
But as an easy flake of thistle-down
That floats along the summer, winged and grey;
And over me she placed a quiet crown
Of hands, and brought my cheek beside the brown
Same tresses,—and she taught me how to pray.
XLIII LOVE'S ABILITIES
Love came, and round about her played a sense
Of life and heaven, and sweet and sinless sleep,
And plains of golden corn a man might reap
For ever, for there is not any fence,
And powers of thought unresting and intense,
And powers of love majestic,—even as deep
As the blue dim Atlantic, and immense
And lofty and eternal as the steep
Of any Alpine summit crowned with snow;
And powers of passion resolute and wild,
Yet tender as the green and rosy glow
Wherewith the sun, deserting us, has smiled,
And gentle as a summer stream whose flow
Is hindered by the crossing of a child.
XLIV. BENEATH THE OAK
I closed my eyes in winter; when I woke,
Or seemed to wake, the trees were new and green,
And many a flower was there, and glossy sheen
Of insects, each resplendent in his cloak
Of gorgeous summer, and the bird-choirs spoke,—
And I heard a woman's voice that seemed to say
—'Twill ring within me to my dying day—
“Hasten, I wait for thee beneath the oak,
I was expecting thee;” and never more
Shall any other voice be strange and sweet
As that was, though I search from shore to shore,
From the blue Arctic icebergs to the heat
Of the extreme South, and open every door,
And try the hollows of each green retreat.
XLV. THE SEA-PALACE
In the fair days of youth I did behold
One standing on the sea-shore, and her face
Smote me with sudden rapture. Then that place
O'er which the sea-wind travelled gaunt and cold
Became as a sweet palace wrought of gold
And chiselled into cunning lines of grace;
And in its heart a fountain I could trace,
And many a pillar of no mortal mould.
And still, when I am wandering by the sea
The wild winds beckon with a sudden tune,
Bringing that palace back again to me,
And the early crescent of love's rising moon:
“Surely,” I whisper, “I shall meet her soon,
And pass those palace-gates triumphantly.”
XLVI. A DREAM OF SUNSET
I dreamed I stood beneath a golden sunset,
With idle breakers leaping on the sand
In silver irresistible slow onset,—
I watched the waving of my lady's hand,
And sweet locks loosened in so many a band
Fell over shoulders white as mountain snows
Or the silver ripples sliding in to land;
Her mouth was as the glory of a rose
The day before its full refulgence blows,
And all her figure seemed like some fair lily
Rising and falling in a soft repose
At even, swept by winds from regions hilly,
And eyes were as the green-gold lamps that then
Emerge, each gliding from a mossy den.
XLVII. THE LOST GLORY
Beyond the grave that passionate lost glory
Shall surely, with white splendour, be revealed
We left, a lily dead in love's fair field,
And the threads of love's sweet intercepted story
Shall be renewed,—although man's head be hoary
Before the eternal lagging meadows yield
And Perseus leap with perfect-polished shield
From life's immeasurable promontory.
Then, as Athene's lofty help uplifted
The daring venture of that hero's head,
The brave man's spirit shall be largely gifted
With power whereby his ascent shall be sped:
This mortal cloak of sorrow shall be shifted,
And the heavenly satisfaction worn instead.
XLVIII. “INTENSITY”
“What shall I give him?” So a maiden said—
“With brave pure labour he sang songs of me;
What shall my final tear-touched token be,
Now that he lies pale, voiceless, heedless, dead?
Shall it be some ripe rose of loveliest red,
Or snowdrop drooping petals tenderly,
Or blue-grey valiant thistle from the sea
Beside whose waves our wandering steps were led?”
So doubted she: but then there came a voice,
An audible direction from the air,
Saying, “Thy first thought was the seemlier choice;
No snow-white name I gave to him to bear,
In no calm crown of lilies to rejoice,
But my rose-wreathed intensity to share.”
XLIX. FROM A WINDOW
I gaze upon the night. Ah! thou art breathing
The same sweet odours, the same gracious air;
In thy pure locks the same night-winds are wreathing
Scents delicate and flowery petals rare.
The same calm holy stars do rest above us;
The same moon glitters at the window-pane;
The soul of the tender self-same God doth love us;
We are refreshed alike by summer rain.
Sleep sends upon us both her healing beauty,
The eternal wings of sacred darkness brood
Above us both,—we dream alike of duty,
We grasp hands in the same nocturnal wood:
The sweet night brings us close; the days divide
A poet from his visionary bride.
L. SWEET TWILIGHT
When the sweet twilight comes, my soul doth enter
A sweet place, hardly seen by shifting light,
Whereof one glorious white form is the centre,
As the clear moon is central orb of night.
I cease to live alone, sad facts forsake me;
I find a queenly gracious counterpart,—
To her with reverent pleasure I betake me,
Bringing the songful treasures of my heart.
I am no more alone, my lady brings me
Another self, a higher holier power:
The tender reappearing twilight flings me
A wave-washed shell towards the fragrant bower
Wherein things seem divinely, grandly new,
Robed in fair summer's unexpected hue.
LI. THE ELEMENTAL KISS
I give to thee the blessing of all flowers,—
The sweetness lingering on the summer breeze,
The music of all thunders and all seas,
The passionate brightness of all red-rose bowers,
The silver magic of love's moonlit hours,
The soft sense of the greenness of the leas,
And tender utterance of the buds of trees,
And tender melody of the springtide showers.
The blessing of the universe is thine,—
This I thy poet for a guerdon give;
Around thy perfect brows all flowers I twine;
In these and in my songs thy soul shall live:
When all loves else are passing to decay,
Then, sweet, the dawning of our bridal day!
LII. MY LADY'S SOUL
My lady's soul is given to me to keep:
It shall be mine with perfect triumph pure;
With dawning revelation sweet and sure;
With ecstasy unutterable and deep.
Once all its glory flamed on me through sleep—
But next in waking wonderment her soul
Shall yield at once to mine, and mine control:
Our spirits shall laugh as one, as one shall weep.
This perfect passionate consummation waits,
More glorious for all the sorrow past,
Close hidden behind our sufferings' silent gates:
My lady's look shall seek mine at the last.
Then shall I reach the passionate soul within;
Untouched—unstained:—left white for me to win.
LIII. THE MAIDEN BLOSSOM
For all her soul is maidenly and pure:
It has not flowered—it is divine as yet
With God's first blessing, with fresh dewdrops wet;
The blossom waits for true love to secure.
All sorrow passes from me, all regret,
For now I know the paths of God are sure,
And that the glances soft that once I met
Are mine for ever,—so I but endure.
All hardness therefore, in this perfect faith
That so illumines and transfigures death,
I can make light of, suffering to the end:
Now that I know that holy God is true,
Life's clouds have parted, and the glad bright blue
Shows God's face as the lost face of a friend.
LIV. MY PLUMES OF SONG
Mine are the plumes of sound that shall uplift
This viewless spirit of hers towards the sky;
Yea, mine shall be the spirit itself: my gift.
Again and yet again her soul shall try
In its own sweet self-confidence to fly;
Again and yet again her soul shall fail:
She is not garbed in the immortal mail,—
Nor can she, through fierce effort, soar on high.
Then shall she come to me with humble face,
Seeking the assistance of the singer's grace,
And he shall lift her softly through the air:
Oh when thou need'st me, and the moment comes
In which thy flower of aspiration blooms,
Nor look, nor call: unsought, I shall be there.
LV. “I AM VERY FOND OF YOU”
Words sweet, supremely perfect, and unending—
Words that have reached my inmost spirit and made
That spirit white and tender and deep,—soft-blending
Passion's divine betrayal with the shade
Of perfect purity as a veil descending
To hide some fierce-flushed rosebud in a glade:
Words that must keep my soul from e'er offending;
Words that must bring my spirit eternal aid,
For ever holiness and manhood lending;
Words after which no death can make me afraid,—
O peaceful girlish words—a calm extending
That shall outlive the cold years' bitter raid;
Words soft, pure, exquisite,—divinely strong,—
I give the world your beauty;—in this song.
LVI. THE CROWN
In a great vision I beheld the Lord.—
I saw his robes, his sceptre, and his rings,
And all his heavenly store of wondrous things;
His garments and his jewels and his sword.
But what is this that some bright seraph brings,
This wonder girded by a golden cord?
Surely it is the crown the King of kings
Alone doth wear,—chief marvel in his hoard.
Eager I looked,—my soul was in a glow,
For surely, thought I, this high God who scorns
To mingle with the earth, more white than snow,
More pure than woman, some strange wreath adorns;—
I yearned and looked—and looked again—for lo!
The crown was not of roses, but of thorns.
LVII. CHIEFEST
If any man would win a crown to last,
First let his inmost spirit of love be pure,—
First let him life's high mountain airs endure,
And face the thunder, and the midnight blast.
When this world's fiery seas are safely past
There shall be pleasure and there shall be praise,
And fame perhaps, and garlands of green bays,
And recompence; but such flowers spring not fast.
Who would be first, must fight the fight most hard;
In labours and in sorrows must abound;
Smooth things and easy must his soul discard;
In battle's red front must his sword-stroke sound:—
Who would be chiefest in the world's regard
With the world's supreme sorrow must be crowned.
LVIII. THE HIGHEST CROWN
The highest anguish wears the highest crown;
The deepest passion brings the best reward.
Woman surrenders to the strongest sword
And lays before that steel her sweet heart down.
Yea, when the leaves of this life wax quite brown
Or pale and sodden, true love 'gins to bloom—
True love's pure petals sweetliest o'er the tomb
Wave: then begins love's golden glad renown.
When the grave closes all love's blossoms bright
Tenderly tremble,—stretching towards the light
The pure smooth petals, yea the firm long leaves:
When life is stripped off like a raiment rent
Love glows and blows, eternally content,
And passion's hand ingathers lustrous sheaves.
LIX. AN ENDLESS UNION
What are the unions of the present?—poor
And pallid, mere forlorn sick shades of love.
When Beatrice kissed Dante from above
Then first their joy shone, glorious to endure.
The love that death can shorten or obscure
Is not love,—love alone which hath no ending,
For ever towards God's throne on sweet wings tending,
Is love that touching, touches to secure.
The lips of love may touch, the breasts may meet,
And yet there shall be separation after;
God's scorn and all heaven's high tempestuous laughter
May round about such ghosts of lovers beat:—
When first a union is for endless time,
Then first it passionate is,—then first sublime.
LX. SYMPATHY
But sympathy can draw, though distance parts
The lovers,—if a man can see, he holds
The woman, and indisputably folds
Her silent spirit to his heart of hearts.
O'er starless space his conquering swift thought darts:
Into his image all her shape he moulds;
Though seas between them lie and barren wolds,
And sunstruck deserts, at one sigh he starts.
One gentle sigh can bring his spirit near,
One look for help, one utterance of a fear,
For he, he only of all men, understands:
So, though as far divided as the poles
In earthly distance, the sweet close-knit souls
Lock equal indivisible white hands.
LXI. THE MEADOW-SWEET OF HEAVEN
I wrote of fragrant meadow-sweet of earth
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.
So thought I—and the thought was sad and cold;
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,
In my love's brown locks joyous wreaths to fold:—
The thought was sad: it passed; instead was given
A bright glimpse of the meadow-sweet of heaven.
LXII. THE SUDDEN SWEETNESS
How soon thou know'st not,—yet it may be soon.—
This high reward of holy expectation
God sends; it outweighs years of tribulation,—
It is a glorious and sufficient boon.
A sudden splendour round me like a moon
Grandly uprising from some silent sea
May flame,—transfiguring unexpectedly:
Hurling my soul towards heaven in one swift swoon.
O lady, when thy kiss comes, be it through pain
Or earthly terror, or this life's defeat,
Or some protracted agonizing strain
Of sorrow, when thy white wings round me beat,
Though at thy touch this mortal self be slain,
It may be sudden but it must be sweet.
LXIII. TILL SHE COME
O holy wondrous coming of the Lord
That they expected—which they saw indeed,
Though not according to their carnal creed
Of trumpets, and a red avenger's sword—
When all thy perfect glory was outpoured
Upon the faithful watchers, what a meed
Was theirs,—how utterly it did exceed
Their suffering,—how transcendent the reward!
Though all the cultured folk around them railed
And mocked, their watchword in the end prevailed:
Its winged breath was too forceful for the tomb.
With the same patience I my lady's death
Show forth,—I watch with hushed and solemn breath
The clouds that hide her beauty—till she come.
LXIV. BLESSED IS HE
Blessed is he who tarrieth for the king.—
And blessed is he who waiteth for his lady
Through nights of suffering,—threading valleys shady
And dim defiles of pain with lips that sing.
Not yet the blue sky parts before her wing;
Not yet the sun-bright angels round her throng
As she descends,—the murky night is long;
No pink clouds round the mountain-summits cling.
But she shall come. Most blest of all is he
Whom no most sudden sunrise can perturb;
Who, when the rich dawn gilds the smallest herb
Upon the mountain-side, can fearlessly
Meet the full rapture of his lady's face,
Not having flinched from his appointed place.
LXV. ONE SILVER LAUGH
If I could hear thy laughter, as of old
It rang in early autumn through the woods,
When berries of the mountain-ash, red-gold,
We gathered—happy in youth's tearless moods:
If only once again I could behold
The happy girlish smile upon thy face,
And watch thy figure in its girlish grace
As then I watched,—my life's tale would be told.
The mere delight, the joyous sense of this
Pure vision would bring peace; it would be bliss
Exceeding every agony of mine:
I should be happy then: it is reward
For me, worth every thrust of God's straight sword,
To hear one tender silver laugh of thine.
LXVI. AT NIGHT
I struggle on through every weary day,
Well knowing that at night a rest will come:
That then I shall behold my blossom's bloom
And count her new buds,—in the twilight grey.
The hours of sunlight are to me a tomb
Most piteous; but the darkness changes all;
Then do I seek thee through the star-hung hall
Of night, soft-guided by some strange perfume.
The long days pierce me with a reckless sword;
Their wild hours hustle me, they heed not how;
Yet have I thee all anguish to allay.
An ample and most exquisite reward
Is thy sweet kiss that lights upon my brow
After the agony of another day.
LXVII. THE SLEEPER
Thou art asleep: thou dost not know me yet:
A stranger am I till the soul awakes.
The body has wide eyes, and it partakes
Of human cares—knows pity and regret,
Joy, sorrow, tenderness,—but firmly set,
Tight fastened are the eyelids of the soul.
It sleeps deep, deep within,—and swift months roll
Far past it,—but no day-dawn has been met.
I wait—in utter patience. Soul that sleepest,
When one fair tear shall show me that thou weepest,
These songs shall touch the closed lids of thine eyes:
And wet with that tear drawn from underneath
Those maiden lids, shall lift thee, as from death,
Saying—Thou hast slept long enough. Arise!
LXVIII. ROSES FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE
Sweet blossoms many and fair I sought to bring;
Some plucked in hedges, some in wild wet woods,—
Some gathered in weird pathless solitudes
Where the lone eagle is unquestioned king.
I wove for thee the supple stems that cling
Round garden-bowers; strange splendid flowers I brought
From tropic lands,—through English vales I sought,
And through the groves where English throstles sing.
All these I wove, my lady, in a crown
For thee—thee only,—if so I might add
To thy fair fame and glory, and make thee glad
With some fresh token of a wide renown:—
Yet then I thought enough had not been given,
And sought to bring thee roses culled in heaven.
LXIX. THY SWEET SORROW
It is thy sorrow, lady, that at last
Shall amply and with certitude repay:
My cross shall draw thee towards me,—thou shalt say,
“I nailed him there, my folly nailed him fast
To this accursed wood one bitter day
Far-off but unforgotten in our past:
I drove the nails in, while he gazed aghast;
Then left him there to wear the years away.”
When thou dost see and say this gracious thing,
Self-sentenced, sad, repentant,—when thine eyes
Look large and lovely as the great drops rise
Therein, and round the downcast lashes cling,
Those tears shall be as pearls within my crown,
Adding soft lustre,—doubling my renown.
LXX. YOUR WATCHING AS WELL
I do your watching, sweet, and mine besides;—
I bear for you the burden of the years;
If e'er your tender face is wet with tears,
Adown my own an answering teardrop glides.
Your sorrow through my veins in swift true tides
Pulses along; your doubts and pangs and fears
Are my doubts also and my pains;—what clears
Your own horizon, hope for me provides.
You watch within the garden; teardrops fall
Upon the leaves and flowers,—I am this rose
Whose petals your soft tears do discompose;
In my red perfumed cup I gather all:
I watch with you, a true flower, through the night,
Sharing all sorrow,—as I share delight.
LXXI. GOD'S HOLY FIRE
Upon me at some seasons there descends
The fire of God to purge thee of thine error,—
Through thunder and through anguish and through terror
To draw thee back towards nobler queenlier ends.
The Spirit of God in flaming glory blends
Its power with mine, and bids me speak to thee;
Yea, could I, without fieriest anger, see
That weakness late repentance barely mends?
There is in me the holy fire of God,
To purge each furrow of the slavish sod
Of thine own fickle and rebellious heart;
There is in me an agony supreme
At thine own sin, and so a saving stream
Of sweet divine redemption I impart.
LXXII. FROM HEAVEN TO EARTH
Though joys of heaven around me in a throng
Should glitter,—though the past might far away
Fade, like the evening of a stormy day
When darkness gathers quickly,—though the strong
Delights of heaven might make the earth wax cold
In thought, and e'en the memory of my song
Like something far behind, forgotten and old,—
Yet one remembrance no deep joy could wrong.
I still should see thee, as I saw thee first,
When first I knew mine own eternal queen
And felt the insatiable and ardent thirst
Of passion:—the sweet girlish face, serene
With placid thoughts in sunniest leisure nursed;
The gentle perfect maiden of sixteen.
LXXIII. THE NARROW GATE
The road of pain and sorrow I pursue,
That so thine eyes may meet mine in the end:—
That thou mayst upward readily ascend,
My hair is wet with watching 'mid the dew
Of frequent nights; that thou mayst hasten through
The narrow gate, I stand beside and keep
My eyes, though heavy, from the aggressive sleep—
That I may aid thy toil with weapon true.
Because the gate is strait, I will be there,—
Ready to help thee, ready forth to fare
That I may bring thy steps along the road:
Because the path is terrible and dire
I straightway seek it—with redoubled fire—
Secure that it conducts towards Love's abode.
LXXIV. THE FIRST TRUE BLOSSOMING
Far, far away from sympathy no flower
Can spread sweet petals into utmost bloom:
Her own desires, unanswered, must consume
The struggling pallid bud from hour to hour.
Not by the summer sun, by no spring shower,
Shall all the inner marvellous perfume
Be drawn to light; it lingers in a tomb,
Cold, sad, remorseless,—lacking joy and power.
But some day comes a heart that understands;
He takes the tender stalk in yearning hands;
At one quick glance he apprehends the whole:—
Then touched by softer breezes, friendlier gales,
The sweet rose buds,—next blossoms, and exhales
The lavish perfume of her inmost soul.
LXXV. THE WIDE SYMPATHY
We sympathize by chance with one or two;
We bear the sorrows, maybe, of a friend;
But there our power of sympathy doth end,—
Its fountain we are forceless to renew.
A great man through the world his heart may send,
Nobly partake in many a purpose true,—
Yet silent agonies o'er some impend,—
Sorrows there are earth's greatest ne'er passed through.
The sympathy of human hearts may fail
After a time; our noblest is but pale
With partial sorrow,—Christ's sad eyes were dim
For every sufferer—this was his renown:
This was his utter victory. Yea, to him
'Twas given to wear all sorrows like a crown.
LXXVI. THE TRANSFIGURING TOUCH
When thou dost lay thine hand upon a thing
It gleams for ever, glorified and new,—
For round thee some magnetic robe doth cling
Which from each flower extracts its secret true.
The daisies at the touching of thy wing,
As if fresh-bathed in lavish evening dew,
Dart forth pink sweeter petals;—passing through
The meadows, choirs of birds about thee sing.
I praise all holy gifts, when thee I praise,—
For all the boons thou grantest me are such.
Treading behind thee, in Christ's heavenlit ways
I tread; I seek thy footpath, wondering much;
All common joys, transfiguring, thou dost raise,
Making them everlasting by thy touch.
LXXVII. BLOW ON BLOW
O puny suffering querulous soul of mine,
Be still now, be at peace,—be not so sad:
Think'st thou this thorn-wreath God has let thee twine
Is the first wreath the spirit of man has had?
Have there been sufferers none with sorrow mad?
Are there no sufferers now whose days decline
Slowly, while thou dost gather from life's vine
Some grapes at least, with healthful hands and glad?—
Or, if thou sufferest more than others, know
That, long before thou wast to suffering born,
Fierce throbs of bitterest pain through God did flow,—
That he was left most utterly forlorn,—
Encountered hostile spear-strokes, blow on blow,
And strokes of friends more grievous, scorn on scorn.
LXXVIII. THE LAST RIDGE
The end approaches. Like a traveller pale
With strong protracted labour, I rejoice:
Soon may I hush my strained and weary voice
And fold my rest about me, like a veil.
Soon “It is finished” may I utter, standing
Nigh the last weary peak I have to assail:
Soon may I, tender Beatrice commanding,
Strip off my blood-bedewed war-beaten mail.
Close to the end of battle now I stand,
Holding my conquest almost in mine hand,—
With Beatrice almost before my eyes;—
My spirit clears itself triumphantly
And climbs to the last ridge, whence now I see
Death's sunset, which to me is life's sunrise.
LXXIX. THE FACE DIVINE
I had sweet visions of the face divine;
Sometimes a woman's face it was, and tender—
Yearning forgivingly o'er each offender,
With pity softening every perfect line.
Again it was a strong man's face,—and fine
With thought and ardent labour; crowned with flowers
I saw it next,—moist buds of eglantine,
And roses plucked from summer-coloured bowers.
Then came a season dark—the face no more
Shone near me; it had vanished, and I dreamed
That every vision of the Lord was o'er;
Yet forth again, sun-bright, the great face gleamed,—
Sun-bright, but as the sun through clouds appears,
For lo! the face divine was wet with tears.
LXXX. UTTERLY ALONE
Alone at last we shall be. Then thine eyes
Shall be the light that lights us on our way;
Thy face the glory of the perfect day;
Thy beauty the soft splendour of sunrise.
All other loves shall fade. Far past us flies
Sorrow, a bird on pinions gaunt and grey.
The earthly sun is setting, but its ray
Is faint by that great fire that Love supplies.
Alone, alone, no mortal near us—air
Above us and around us: all the scars
Of life are healing; now no lingering care
With sword perverse enfeebles us and mars.
I am alone with thee, thou woman fair,—
Thee only, and God's presence, and the stars.
