And when on the pathway I faltered,
And when I rebelled at my fate,
The Voice with assurance unaltered,
Again spoke one syllable—“Wait.”
Along the hard highway I travelled
And saw, with dim vision, how soon
The morning’s gold locks were unravelled,
By fingers of amorous noon.
A turn in the pathway of duty—
I stood in the perfect day’s prime,
Close, close to the hillside of beauty
The Voice from the Silence said “Climb”
The road to the beautiful Regions
Lies ever through Duty’s hard way.
Oh ye who go searching in legions,
Know this and be patient to-day.
HELENA
Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise
Of late all men have sounded. She for whom
Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb
Rather than live without her all his days.
Wise men go mad who look upon her long,
She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile
I find no fascination in her smile,
Although I make her theme of this poor song.
“Her golden tresses?” yes, they may be fair,
And yet to me each shining silken tress
Seems robbed of beauty and all lustreless—
Too many hands have stroked Helena’s hair.
(I know a little maiden so demure
She will not let her one true lover’s hands
In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands
So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)
“Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?
Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be,
And yet they are not beautiful to me.
Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.