LADY.
And who was its creator?
WALTER.
He was one
Who could not help it, for it was his nature
To blossom into song, as 'tis a tree's
To leaf itself in April.
LADY.
Did he love?
WALTER.
Ay; and he suffered.—His was not that love
That comes on men with their beards. His soul was rich;
And this his book unveils it, as the night
Her panting wealth of stars. The world was cold,
And he went down like a lone ship at sea;
And now the fame that scorned him while he lived
Waits on him like a menial.——
When the dark dumb Earth
Lay on her back and watched the shining stars,
A Soul from its warm body shuddered out
To the dim air and trembled with the cold;
Through the waste air it passed as swift and still,
As a dream passes through the lands of sleep,
Till at the very gates of spirit-world
'Twas asked by a most worn and earnest shape
That seemed to tremble on the coming word,
About an orphan Poem, and if yet
A Name was heard on earth.
LADY.
'Tis very sad,
And doth remind me of an old, low strain,
I used to sing in lap of summers dead,
When I was but a child, and when we played
Like April sunbeams 'mong the meadow-flowers;
Or romped i' the dews with weak complaining lambs;
Or sat in circles on the primrose knolls,
Striving with eager and palm-shaded eyes,
'Mid shouts and silver laughs, who first should catch
The lark, a singing speck, go up the blue.
I'll sing it to thee; 'tis a song of One—
(An image slept within his soul's caress,
Like a sweet thought within a Poet's heart
Ere it is born in joy and golden words)—
Of One whose naked soul stood clad in love,
Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire.
I'll sing it to thee. [Lady sings.