VIOLET.
I have.
WALTER.
It is enough.
The Book was only written for two souls,
And they are thine and mine.
VIOLET.
For many weeks,
When I was dwelling by the moaning sea,
Your name was blown to me on ev'ry wind,
And I was glad; for by that sign I knew
You had fulfilled your heart, and hoped you would
Put off the robes of sorrow, and put on
The singing crown of Fame. One dreary morn
Your Book came to me, and I fondled it,
As though it were a pigeon sent from thee
With love beneath its wing. I read and read
Until the sun lifted his cloudy lids
And shot wild light along the leaping deep,
Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear,
I laid it down in silence, and went forth
Burdened with its sad thoughts: slowly I went;
And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom,
I saw the pale and penitential moon
Rise from dark waves that plucked at her, and go
Sorrowful up the sky. Then gushed my tears—
The tangled problem of my life was plain—
I cried aloud, "Oh, would he come to me!
I know he is unhappy; that he strives
As fiercely as that blind and desperate sea,
Clutching with all its waves—in vain, in vain.
He never will be happy till he comes."
As I went home the thought that you would come
Filled my lorn heart with gladness, as the moon
Filled the great vacant night with moonlight, till
Its silver bliss ran o'er—so after prayer
I slept in the lap of peace—next morn you came.
WALTER.
And then I found you beautiful and pale—
Pale as that moonlight night! O Violet,
I have been undeceived. In my hot youth
I kissed the painted bloom off Pleasure's lips
And found them pale as Pain's,—and wept aloud.
Never henceforward can I hope to drain
The rapture of a lifetime at a gulp.
My happiness is not a troubled joy;
'Tis deep, serene as death. The sweet contents,
The happy thoughts from which I've been estranged,
Again come round me, as the old known peers
Surround and welcome a repentant spirit,
Who by the steps of sorrow hath regained
His throne and golden prime. The eve draws nigh!
The prosperous sun is in the west, and sees
From the pale east to where he sets in bliss,
His long road glorious. Wilt thou sing, my love,
And sadden me into a deeper joy?
Violet sings.
The wondrous ages pass like rushing waves,
Each crowned with its own foam. Bards die, and Fame
Hangs like a pallid meteor o'er their graves.
Religions change, and come and go like flame.