Since, in thine hour of sorrow, unto thee
Came sweet remembrance of the summer sea
And one who sat beside it—in his eyes
The far-off thought of sea and summer skies:
Since in thine heart the visionary gleam
Of one half-wasted life, more like a dream,
Pale in its pleading, stood to be the sign
Of Love, as Love is, passionate, divine:
Ah! since in all this world no fuller sound
Than my faint spirit’s utterance was found
Bidding thee cherish hope: so let it be.
Behold, beyond the summer and the sea
I utter not myself, but am His voice
Who bids all Nature live, and thee rejoice.
* * *
VIII
SEVERANCE
My life thy life unto itself doth fold
Closer than death. My soul clasps all of thine,
As in the bud rose-petals intertwine
Before the light divides them. I behold
Deep in the mystic shadow-caverns shine
Thine image on the fire-fed sources cold
Whereby my spirit dwells; and with the old
Foreboding unforgotten, dream divine,
Thou dost disturb me. Yet the dim-lit day
Dawns down between us, staring face to face,
Strange as the stormy Atlantic; with swift pace
We tread the track which sets our steps astray;
Thy lips are mute; mine move not; evermore
I wait and wearily knock at Death’s dark door.
IX
IT SHALL BE
It shall be. Although far away the sound
Dies in the infinite silence of the sky,
Although obscure, and hid in the profound,
Our days stream outwards, onwards, and pass by.
It shall be. Behold a new world is made
Out of the old, and the old dieth not;
For though the mountain-forms and flowers fade,
Ageless remains the far-informing Thought.
Ah! when this troublous dream and mortal sleep
Fades from our eyelids, and the end is near,
Down through the spaceless void and starry steep
Instinct with Love the dreaming soul shall hear
One whispered word; and all the past shall be
Up-gathered into Love’s eternity.
* * *
X
WALDSTEIN SONATA. BEETHOVEN
O changeless in thy beauty, stedfast, strong,
Exultant in the calm of victory,
A mighty poet flung thee forth, to be
A part of Nature. So that I, thus long
Listening to thy majestic voices, dream
Of some vast snow-veiled mountain far away,
Whose front is crimson fire at orient day;
Where in the dark Dian’s silver lances gleam;
Where shadows of the tireless storm-wreathed mist
Move on in changeless interchange; where call
Clamorous echoes of the waterfall
From crag to crag; whom Night alone hath kissed,
And everlasting silence, and the far
Glimmering magic of the Morning star.
November, 1869.