RESERVE.

I hear you praise

What you are pleased to call unsounded depths

Of character; a nature that the world

Would call reserved; tempting you while it hides—

Or you suspect it hides—a richer wealth

Deep in some far recesses of the soul.

As if, indeed, you should approve the host

Who with most admirable courtesy

Should throw wide open to your curious gaze

His drawing-room, his green-house and his hall;

Yet should not hesitate to let you see

Certain close-bolted doors of hardest oak,

Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here,

Alas! I cannot let you enter.”

You

At once are filled with curiosity

To listen at the keyhole.

So am I;

Yet much I doubt if after all those deep

Recesses of the soul are filled with aught

But emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang;

The master of the house can scarce himself

Feel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts;

Although he take an honorable pride,

Leaning at ease in comfortable chair,

To know there are some chambers in his soul

Unentered even by himself.

But him

I call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a well

Of frank sincerity; whose smiling lips,

Curving with hospitable gayety,

Bid you most welcome to his house and home;

Throwing wide open to your curious gaze

Each nook and corner; leaving you at ease

To wander where you will; and if at times

You half suspect some hidden sweet retreat

Where hyacinths are blossoming unseen,

’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doors

Whisper of secrets you would fain explore;

But that the tapestries upon the wall

So lightly hang, that swaying to and fro,

They half betray a fragrance from within.

You never once suspect that secret doors

Are sliding in the panels underneath;

But when you go, the master of the house

Lifts easily the soft and shining silk,

To find there sacred silence from you all.

’Tis easier

To read the secrets of a dark, deep pool

That coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,”

With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky,

Than catch the meaning of a silver spring,

Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heart

Delicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.