But still I live within this place of pain;
And still I seek for an eternal aim,
For, after death, mere Beauty is in vain.
What is there deeper flowing from this same
Unceasing spring? Quick, let me tear the veil!
There sat a statue on an ebon frame—
A statue in that house of pain. So pale
The brow and still the nostrils, Death it seemed;
But in the face, I read that holy tale
That lay on the Madonna's face where gleamed
The Heavenly light from the young Christ's aureole.
Through all the halls of pain, the brilliance beamed;
And every discord out of chaos stole
To swell the throbbing organ's thunderous roll.

XIX

Faith is the master-spirit of the mind.
All else is vanity, the preacher saith;
And worldly knowledge painful is and blind.
Oh, be thyself, and trust thyself. The breath
Of God is breathed on thee. Believe, and will;
And all that thou wouldst have in life, in death,
Is thine. I heard a rustling like a rill
Upon its leafy bed—just such a sound
As tincts the shadow of a song with skill
More intricate than arabesques, and bound
With tender, faintly-flowing melodies—
But whence the choir sang, I never found.
Mayhap at last, myself may learn the ties
Wherewith are bound those lingering harmonies.

XX

And when the soul has torn the fleshly veil,
And moves majestic to that monotone,
When echo-like upon the air I sail
Whither the wingèd skylark, Faith, has flown,
And borne me fainting upward; then my soul
May seek the God of art which silent, lone,
Broods on a crystal-argent sea, the goal
Of all humanity. Incarnate pain
Is calmed to everlasting peace. There roll
No waves upon the sea. Charmed has it lain
Through incommensurate time; charmed will it lie
Through all eternity; and there again
Upon my soul in silence wrapped, shall sigh,
Most beautiful—a mother's lullaby.
December, 1912.
January, 1913.