I read your truth. You read—What did you read?
Did you read all, and, reading all, forgive?
How I—O little dwarf of conscience sieve
My soul; bare all before her bare indeed!
And, looking on the remnant and the waste,
Can you absolve me,—me, the doubter, one
Who challenged what God spent His genius on,
His genius and His pride; so fair, so chaste?
I am ashamed. . . . And when I told my dreams,
Shaken and humble,—“Dear, there was no cause,”
Your words; proud, sorrowful, as it beseems
Such as thou art. There never was a cause
Why you should honour me. Ashamed am I.
And you forgive me, bless me, for reply.
BENEDICTUS
You bless me, then you turn away your head—
“Never again, dear. I have blessed you so,
My lips upon your lips; between must flow
The river—Oh the river!” Thus you said.
The river—Oh the river, and the sun;
Stream that we may not cross, sun that is joy:
Flow as thou must; shine on in full employ—
Shine through her eyes thou; let the river run.
O lady, to your liegeman speak. You say:
“Dream no more dreams; yourself be as am I!”
Your hands clasped to your face, so shutting out the day.
An instant, then to me, your low good-bye—
Good-night, good-bye; and then the social reign,
The lights, the songs, the flowers—and the pain.
THE MESSAGE
“Oh, hush!” you said; “oh, hush!” The twilight hung
Between us and the world; but in your face,
Flooding with warm inner light, the sovereign grace
Of one who rests the brooding trees among—
Of one who steps down from a lofty throne,
Seeking that peace the sceptre cannot call;
And leaving courtier, page, and seneschal,
Goes down the lane of sycamores alone;
And, going, listens to the notes that swell
From golden throats—stories of ardent days,
And lovers in fair vales; and homing bell:
And the sweet theme unbearable, she prays
The song-bird cease! So, on the tale I dare,
Your “hush!” your wistful “hush!” broke like prayer.
UNAVAILING
“Never,” you said, “never this side the grave,
And what shall come hereafter, who may know?
Whether we e’en shall guess the way we go,
Passing beneath Death’s mystic architrave
Silence or song, dumb sleep or cheerful hours?”
O lady, you have questioned, answer too.
You—you to die—silence and gloom for you:
Dead song, dead lights, dead graces, and dead flowers?
It is not so: the foolish trivial end,
The inconsequent paltry Nothing—gone—gone all;
The genius of the ageless Something spend
Itself within this little earthly wall:
The commonplace conception, that we reap
Reward of drudge and ploughman—idle sleep!