Walked softly now; lay on the daisied grass;And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon
The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair,
Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing.
But though I lingering listen to the old,
Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old
And lift their lost souls up the music-stair—
Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart
To look the blank unknown full in the void;
For he had hope in God—the growth of years,
Of ponderings, of childish aspirations,
Of prayers and readings and repentances;
For something in him had ever sought the peace
Of other something deeper in him still—
A faint sound sighing for a harmony With other fainter sounds, that softly drew Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths Where the Individual goeth out in God: The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, And sought the way by which the music came, Hoping at last to find the face of him To whom Saint John said Lord with holy awe, And on his bosom fearless leaned the while.
As his slow spring came on, the swelling life,
The new creation inside of the old,
Pressed up in buds toward the invisible.
And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay.
Not once he thought of that still churchyard now;
He looked away from earth, and loved the sky.
One earthly notion only clung to him:—
He thanked God that he died not in the cold;
"For," said he, "I would rather go abroad
When the sun shines, and birds are singing blithe.—It
may be that we know not aught of place,
Or any sense, and only live in thought;
But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light.
I may pass forth into the sea of air That swings its massy waves around the earth, And I would rather go when it is full Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick. Now in the dawn of summer I shall die— Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, And going with the light. And when they say, 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;' I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'"
The weary nights did much to humble him;
They made the good he knew seem all ill known:
He would go by and by to school again!
"Father," he said, "I am nothing; but Thou art!" Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, Who, longing for his mother, has forgot The arms about him, holding him to her heart: Mother he murmuring moans; she wakes him up That he may see her face, and sleep indeed.
Father! we need thy winter as thy spring;
We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers;
But through them all thy strong arms carry us,
Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief.
Because thou lovest goodness more than joy
In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve:
We must not vex thee with our peevish cries,
But look into thy face, and hold thee fast,
And say O Father, Father! when the pain Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: We never grasp the zenith of the time! We have no spring except in winter-prayers! But we believe—alas, we only hope!—That one day we shall thank thee perfectly For every disappointment, pang, and shame, That drove us to the bosom of thy love.
One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep.
His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark,
Through which bright pictures passed of the outer world:
The regnant Will gazed passive on the show;
The magic tube through which the shadows came,
Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops,
Glided across the field the things that were,
Silent and sorrowful, like all things old:
Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent,
And old brown letters are more sad than graves.
At length, as ever in such vision-hours,
Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse.
Will started all awake, passive no more,
And, necromantic sage, the apparition
That came unbid, commanded to abide.
Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts:
How had she fared, spinning her history
Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings
Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer?
Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or
Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained?
"I know," he said, "some women fail of life!
The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?"
The fount of possibilities began
To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought:
Anon the geyser-column raging rose;—
For purest souls sometimes have direst fears
In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth
Is cast on half her children, and the sun
Is busy giving daylight to the rest.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "if she be such as those!—
Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still
Fancy the wavings of invisible wings,
But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts,
Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!—
It cannot, cannot be! She is
