’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all. His eye will discover the wound concealed; He will bend to hear me before I call. Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell! She was dust and ashes long ago, With the proud young king and his leech as well, And the smiling courtiers, row on row.
But whether the dawn in the east be red, Or whether the stars bloom out afield, This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead: “Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
“BY DIVERS PATHS”
Unknown to me thy name or state, Save that a mantle saintly Of rare and sweet unworldliness Enfolded thee most quaintly.
We came and went by divers paths; We planned nor time, nor meeting; We spake not, save by nod, or smile, Or glance of casual greeting.
Yet, led by some strange chance or fate To-day by ruined altars, Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves, The pitying sunshine falters;
To-morrow where your blue lakes shine, And bloom your English daisies; Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crest The sunset splendor blazes;
Or where deep organ-thunders roll Through grand cathedral arches, And stately Durham’s triple towers Look toward the Scottish marches;
Thus, here and there, we met, nor knew Each other’s name nor mission, The while a subtile kinship grew To silent recognition.