VIII. THE WATCH.
Are those her feet at last upon the stair?
Her trailing garments echoing there?
The falling of her hair?
About a year ago I heard her come,
Thus; as a child recalling some
Vague memories of home.
O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!
I saw them open, and grow wise:
No questions, no replies.
And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.
The wet boughs reach against the pane
In the same way, again.
In the old way I hear the moaning wind
Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,—
Blind as the stars are blind.
—She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,
Yet,—what if once again at dawn
I wake to find her gone?
IX. THE SEEKERS.
Is it very long ago things were as they are
Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?
Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?
Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?
O, the way was good to tread! Up hill and down;
Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;
Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,
Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.
Strange and evil things we met—but what cared we,
Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?
Battles by the countless score, red blood running free—
Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.
Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?
They were weak—we were strong—health we held to yet:
Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,—
Then to the road again, striving to forget.
Once again upon the road! The seasons passed us by—
Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,
Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,—
One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.
O, the countries that we found in our wandering!
Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,
Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,—
We might tarry but a while, far away from home.
Far away the home we sought,—soon we must be gone;
The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;
The dawn came, the noon came, the dusk came, the dawn—
Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.
* * * * *
Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,
Yesterday,—last year—a million years ago?
Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star
Hangs above the hidden hills—white and very low.
Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;
All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;
—Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep;
Just beyond the turn o' the road,—surely Peace is thee!
X. FELLOWSHIP.
1.
At last we reached the pointed firs
And rested for a little while;
The light of home was in her smile
And my cold hand grew warm as her's.
Behind, across the level snow,
We saw the half-moon touch the hill
Where we had felt the sunset; still
Our feet had many miles to go.
And now, new little stars were born
In the dark hollows of the sky:—
Perhaps (she said) lest we should die
Of weariness before the morn.
2.
Once, when the year stood still at June,
At even we had tarried there
Till Dusk came in—her noiseless hair
Trailing along a pathway strewn
With broken cones and year-old things,
But now, tonight, it seemed that She
Therein abode continually,
With weighted feet and folded wings,
And so we lingered not for dawn
To mark the edges of out path;
But with such home a blind man hath
At midnight, we went groping on.
—I do not know how many firs
We stumbled past in that still wood:
Only I know that once we stood
Together there—my lips on her's.
3.