So be it. All this word-work proves
Nothing. Then let it end. Though there’s a charm
In speech—but you are tired. ’Twill be no harm
To rest you on my shoulder, though its creed
(Poor shoulder!) is not orthodox.
The Maiden.
Indeed,
I need not rest.
The Lady.
Well, then, I’m half asleep
Myself, and you the silent watch may keep.—
(Thinking.) I’ve whiled the time away; but, thou dear God,
Who made me, how with bleeding feet have trod
The toiling moments through my heart! I pray
(For I believe that prayer may aid the soul,
Though not the body nor the fixed control
Of Nature) that his love may hold its sway
E’en as I saw him last, when, at my feet,
He lavished his young heart in burning tide
Of loving words. Oh, not for mine own joy,
But his, I pray this prayer; do thou destroy
All my own part in it.—Ah, love, full sweet
Shall be our meeting. Lo! the longed-for bride
Comes—of her own accord. There is no bliss,
Even in heaven, greater than the kiss
That I do keep for thee!
The Maiden (thinking).
O God, thy will
Be done—yes, first of all, be done! (Bide still,
Thou wicked, rebel heart!) Yet, O Lord, grant
This grace to me, a lowly supplicant.
My mind is vexèd, evil thoughts do rage
Within my soul; O Merciful, assuage
The suffering I endure!—If it is true
My poor boy loves this woman—and what is
Is ever for the best—create anew
Her soul that it may surely leaven his
With holiness. Oh, stretch Thy mighty arm
And win her to Thy fold, that she may be
A godly woman, graced with piety,
Turned from the error of her ways, the harm
Of all her worldliness, the sinful charm
Of her fair face (if it be fair, though I
Think her too brown) changed by humility
To decorous sweetness.—
Lord, look in my heart;
I may not know myself; search every part,
And give me grace to say that I will yield
My love to hers if Thy will stands revealed
In his swift preference.
Yet, in pity, hear—
Change her, Lord—make her good! [Weeps.
The Lady (thinking).
Is that a tear
On her soft cheek? She has her little griefs,
Then, as the children have; their small beliefs
Are sometimes brought to naught—no fairies live,
And dolls are sawdust!—
Love, I do forgive
Your boyish fancy, for she’s lily fair;
But no more could content you now than dew
Could hope to fill Niagara with its rare,
Fine drops that string the grass-blade’s shining hue,
Upon the brink.—Dearest, I call! Oh, see
How all my being rushes toward thee! Wait,
E’en though before thine eyes bright heaven’s gate
Let out its light: angels might envy thee
Such love as I shall give thee—wait! oh, wait!