He found all fairer than fair morn
In sylvan land, where waters run
With downward leap against the sun,
And full-grown sudden May is born.
He found her taller than tall corn
Tiptoe in tassel; found her sweet
As vale where bees of Hybla meet.
An unblown rose, an unread book;
A wonder in her wondrous eyes;
A large, religious, steadfast look
Of faith, of trust,—the look of one
New welcomed in her Paradise.
He read this book,—read on and on
From titlepage to colophon:
As in cool woods, some summer day,
You find delight in some sweet lay,
And so entranced read on and on
From titlepage to colophon.
XXII.
And who was he that rested there,—
This Hercules, so huge, so rare,
This giant of a grander day,
This Theseus of a nobler Greece,
This Jason of the golden fleece?
And who was he? And who were they
That came to seek the hidden gold
Long hallowed from the pirate’s hold?
I do not know. You need not care.
. . . . . .
They loved, this maiden and this man,
And that is all I surely know,—
The rest is as the winds that blow.
He bowed as brave men bow to fate,
Yet proud and resolute and bold;
She, coy at first, and mute and cold,
Held back and seemed to hesitate,—
Half frightened at this love that ran
Hard gallop till her hot heart beat
Like sounding of swift courser’s feet.
XXIII.
Two strong streams of a land must run
Together surely as the sun
Succeeds the moon. Who shall gainsay
The fates that reign, that wisely reign?
Love is, love was, shall be again.
Like death, inevitable it is;
Perchance, like death, the dawn of bliss.
Let us, then, love the perfect day,
The twelve o’clock of life, and stop
The two hands pointing to the top,
And hold them tightly while we may.