Douce-cœur.
What light is there for those who strive and fail?
Love.
One only fails. He whom some term Success,
He who gives heart and soul and youth and strength
To an unworthy cause. Failure is he
Who sacrifices me before the world,
Who prostitutes the God in him for what
Will turn to dust and ashes in his hand.
'Tis he alone is outcast though he thinks
Himself the sun of all the universe.
To those, Princess, who striving seem to fail,
It is not failure, for none see the end,
And they who sigh are only those who seek
An earlier consummation than is just;
If they cling fast to me they still behold
The white star-flowers Hope plants about the world.
Who knows to what fair land rough seas may lead?
Douce-cœur.
Lo! over all I see the cruel hand
Of Death outstretched, certain and pitiless.
Love.
The hand of Death is full of tenderness.
He leads men through that dark mysterious gate—
That all must pass into another life—
To other lives that through the cycles bring
The souls of men upward from step to step,
Uniting those for ever who are one.
Death hushes them like children on his breast.
Setting his own smile on their silent lips—
That tender smile of strange triumphant peace.
Death is my Brother, and I say to thee,
Learn to know me, thou wilt not fear his hand.
Douce-cœur.
Another hand is knocking at my heart
Whose touch I know not, and I feel afraid—
Afraid to listen. Yet I long to hear.
Stranger, who art thou? Let me see thy face.
Love.
Learn to know me and thou shalt nothing fear.
Douce-cœur.
Who art thou? Let me look into thine eyes.
Love.
Learn to know me and thou wilt find the Light.
Douce-cœur.
Pilgrim, who art thou? Let me know thy name.
Love.
Dost thou not know me, Douce-cœur?