Lily. O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me. Another story is very nearly done.
[He takes her on his knees.]
I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds—white curtains, and white tassels.
—No, no, no—it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.
Julian. You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.
Lily. O will you keep me always, father dear? And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me? Oh, I should be so happy, never to move! 'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms! Don't let it take me; do not let me go: I cannot leave you, father—love hurts so.
Julian. Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now, And try to make you sleep?
Lily. Yes—no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head! Mother, mother, dear mother!—Sing to me, father.
[He tries to sing.]
Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on his throne, and man below.
But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love—for the love with its hurt alone.
Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;
Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
Love for love's sake, like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.
[She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in which he talks.]
Julian. A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault: Man with the heart, praying for woman's love, Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice: Take this or this. O Heaven and Earth! I see—What is it? Statue trembling into life With the first rosy flush upon the skin? Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings? I see her—where I know not; for I see Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain— God keep me!—in celestial nakedness. She leaneth forward, looking down in space, With large eyes full of longing, made intense By mingled fear of something yet unknown; Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.
O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood—
Glory grown grace, divine to human grown?
I hear the voice again: Speak but the word: She will array herself and come to thee. Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes, Her earthly dress for work and weary rest! —I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep, Close by the white foot of the wonderful. It is the same shape, line for line, as she. Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs. Why speak I not the word?———Clothe thee, and come, O infinite woman! my life faints for thee.
Once more the voice: Stay! look on this side first: I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man! Choose then between them. Ah! ah!
[Silence.]
Her I knew
Some ages gone; the woman who did sail
Down a long river with me to the sea;
Who gave her lips up freely to my lips,
Her body willingly into my arms;
Came down from off her statue-pedestal,
And was a woman in a common house,
Not beautified by fancy every day,
And losing worship by her gifts to me.
She gave me that white child—what came of her?
I have forgot.—I opened her great heart,
And filled it half-way to the brim with love—
With love half wine, half vinegar and gall—
And so—and so—she—went away and died?
O God! what was it?—something terrible—
I will not stay to choose, or look again
Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife,
The woman of the old time on the earth.
O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands,
Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain
If thou descend to earth, and find no man
To love thee purely, strongly, in his will,
Even as he loves the truth, because he will,
And when he cannot see it beautiful—
Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep.
Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come.
'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet!
In the same dress, same flowing of the hair,
As long ago, on earth: is her face changed?
Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower;
My dove descending rests upon thy head;
I bless and sanctify thee for my own:
Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee.
Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers!
She rises—turns it up from me to God,
With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!—the stars
Might find new orbits there, and be content.
