I’ve known the pregnant thinkers of this time, And stood by breathless, hanging on their lips, When some chromatic sequence of fine thought In learned modulation phrased itself To an unconjectured harmony of truth. And yet I’ve been more moved, more raised, I say, By a simple word ... a broken easy thing, A three-years infant might say after you,— A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm, Which meant less than ‘I love you’ ... than by all The full-voiced rhetoric of those master-mouths.
‘Ah dear Aurora,’ he began at last, His pale lips fumbling for a sort of smile, ‘Your printer’s devils have not spoilt your heart: That’s well. And who knows but, long years ago, When you and I talked, you were somewhat right In being so peevish with me? You, at least, Have ruined no one through your dreams! Instead, You’ve helped the facile youth to live youth’s day With innocent distraction, still perhaps Suggestive of things better than your rhymes. The little shepherd-maiden, eight years old, I’ve seen upon the mountains of Vaucluse, Asleep i’ the sun, her head upon her knees, The flocks all scattered,—is more laudable Than any sheep-dog trained imperfectly, Who bites the kids through too much zeal.’ ‘I look As if I had slept, then?’ He was touched at once By something in my face. Indeed ’twas sure That he and I,—despite a year or two Of younger life on my side, and on his, The heaping of the years’ work on the days,— The three-hour speeches from the member’s seat, The hot committees, in and out the House, The pamphlets, ‘Arguments,’ ‘Collective Views,’ Tossed out as straw before sick houses, just To show one’s sick and so be trod to dirt, And no more use,—through this world’s underground The burrowing, groping effort, whence the arm And heart come bleeding,—sure, that he and I Were, after all, unequally fatigued! That he, in his developed manhood, stood A little sunburnt by the glare of life; While I ... it seemed no sun had shone on me, So many seasons I had forgot my Springs; My cheeks had pined and perished from their orbs, And all the youth-blood in them had grown white As dew on autumn cyclamens: alone My eyes and forehead answered for my face.
He said ... ‘Aurora, you are changed—are ill!’
‘Not so, my cousin,—only not asleep!’ I answered, smiling gently. ‘Let it be. You scarcely found the poet of Vaucluse As drowsy as the shepherds. What is art, But life upon the larger scale, the higher, When, graduating up in a spiral line Of still expanding and ascending gyres, It pushes toward the intense significance Of all things, hungry for the Infinite? Art’s life,—and where we live, we suffer and toil.’
He seemed to sift me with his painful eyes. ‘Alas! you take it gravely; you refuse Your dreamland, right of common, and green rest. You break the mythic turf where danced the nymphs, With crooked ploughs of actual life,—let in The axes to the legendary woods, To pay the head-tax. You are fallen indeed On evil days, you poets, if yourselves Can praise that art of yours no otherwise; And, if you cannot, ... better take a trade And be of use! ’twere cheaper for your youth.’
‘Of use!’ I softly echoed, ‘there’s the point We sweep about for ever in argument; Like swallows, which the exasperate, dying year Sets spinning in black circles, round and round, Preparing for far flights o’er unknown seas. And we ... where tend we?’ ‘Where?’ he said, and sighed. ‘The whole creation, from the hour we are born, Perplexes us with questions. Not a stone But cries behind us, every weary step, ‘Where, where?’ I leave stones to reply to stones. Enough for me and for my fleshly heart To harken the invocations of my kind, When men catch hold upon my shuddering nerves And shriek, ‘What help? what hope? what bread i’ the house, What fire i’ the frost?’ There must be some response, Though mine fail utterly. This social Sphinx, Who sits between the sepulchres and stews, Makes mock and mow against the crystal heavens, And bullies God,—exacts a word at least From each man standing on the side of God, However paying a sphinx-price for it. We pay it also if we hold our peace, In pangs and pity. Let me speak and die. Alas! you’ll say, I speak and kill, instead.’
I pressed in there; ‘The best men, doing their best, Know peradventure least of what they do: Men usefullest i’ the world, are simply used; The nail that holds the wood, must pierce it first, And He alone who wields the hammer, sees The work advanced by the earliest blow. Take heart.’
‘Ah, if I could have taken yours!’ he said, ‘But that’s past now,’ Then rising ... ‘I will take At least your kindness and encouragement. I thank you. Dear, be happy. Sing your songs, If that’s your way! but sometimes slumber too, Nor tire too much with following, out of breath, The rhymes upon your mountains of Delight. Reflect, if Art be, in truth, the higher life, You need the lower life to stand upon, In order to reach up unto that higher; And none can stand a-tiptoe in the place He cannot stand in with two stable feet. Remember then!—for Art’s sake, hold your life.’
We parted so. I held him in respect. I comprehended what he was in heart And sacrificial greatness. Ay, but he Supposed me a thing too small to deign to know: He blew me, plainly, from the crucible, As some intruding, interrupting fly Not worth the pains of his analysis Absorbed on nobler subjects. Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he’s pitiful To flies even. ‘Sing,’ says he, ‘and teaze me still, If that’s your way, poor insect.’ That's your way!