Perpetual Light | Page 5

that I must know infinitely more and try to understand
better, and that we are governed most truly only by the inexplicable.
"Meanwhile, there is our life here--Well?"
The verse in this book is put as nearly as possible in the order of its
writing. If there is any merit in any line of it, the merit is of her making.
If there is none, the effort was, at least, to reach higher than my
grasp--because of her. A writer is--and it is the ancient curse!--an
egotist. But it is not my grief that I wish to display here. The human
heart can fortunately never be put on paper. Only--reality assures of
reality.
Poetry is unconscionable because it follows true conscience. I knew, in
her, that conscience,--and know it in these fantastic shadows cast by her
light. If you do also, be assured that the light still shines-- forever.
New York City,
March 25, 1919.
BEFORE
THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER
Love, the wild fowler, spreads his nets with care,
And deep-toned
warning both our hearts have heard,
Even as the old-time low-bell
held each bird
Suddenly trembling, nestling pair by pair
Dark in the
covert, till a blinding glare
Of torchlight and a clamorous shouted
word
Dazed their bright eyes, and terrified wings upwhirred
To
baffled blundering in the close-drawn snare.

So, dear, we cower at our warning bell.
Creep close to me, where
shadows gird us round.
Fear we that wild revealment? Nay, not we!

"Ah, perilous play, to cross Love's stalking-ground!"
You whisper...
yet our eyes, our eyes could tell
Of hearts that leap to meet their
certainty!
THWARTED UTTERANCE
Why should my clumsy speech so fall astray,
To uncouth jargon of
the every-day
Turn each fit word and phrase
I treasured for your
praise?
Discoveries I won to from afar,
All the rare things you are--nor know
you are,--
In Orient offering
I haste to you to bring.
I think to kneel and spread on cloths of dream
The beautiful, the
priceless things you seem;
Perfume and precious stone,
That you be
shown your own.
Prince of my vision-palace, I would call
Your name through trumpets
down its central hall,
And the rapt choral praise
Before your dais
raise;
And you should see, should hear, be glad and smile
That I so love
you. Ah, but all the while
I may not show nor teach
Save through
my paupered speech!
Beggar in guise, who am so rich at heart
Where you have set your
pure white shrine apart
And keep your cherished state
Dear and
immaculate,
How should you know or hear me, when my tongue
Turns a dull
rebel and doth ready wrong
To thoughts my dreams repeat?--

Perhaps too proud, too sweet!
THE SONG OF HER

Thou art my singing and my voice,
Thy life the thing that I would
sing,
Perfect past words of perfect choice,
A lovely and a lasting
thing.
In every deed of thine, sweetheart,
The poetry of heaven has
part
Beyond the gamut of all art,
Leaving me mute and marvelling.
Thy deeds like rhymes I have by heart,
Thy happy deeds of heavenly
choice,
Deeds that rise rapt and shine apart
As echoes of a perfect
voice
Rise and rejoice when voices sing,
Linger and ring--linger
and ring
Till heaven is of their echoing
And all the heights of
heaven rejoice.
Thou art the song that I would sing,
The purest song of purest art,

Till men stand mute for marvelling,
Aye, till the singing break Man's
heart
Where sorrows glory to rejoice
In perfect notes of perfect
choice
And strains of One deep, tender voice
Transfigured joys
from sorrows start.
In all this world I have no choice.
If I would sing a lasting thing,

Thou art my singing and my voice.
Poor rhymes that earn no
welcoming,
Rhymes that are nothing learned in art,
From heaven,
from her, such worlds apart,--
Creep then unto her tender heart
And
from her living learn to sing!
"ALWAYS I KNOW YOU ANEW"
I press my hands on my eyes
And will that you come to me.
Your
semblances shimmer and rise;
Yet 'tis never your self I see,
Never
the exquisite grace
And the bright, still flame of you.
So, when I
meet you face to face,
Always I know you anew!
Faint visions I saw, instead
Of your brows direct and wise,
Of the
little lilt of your head
And your dark-lashed, sky-clear eyes,

Of the
soft brown braids demure,
The poise as of quiet light,
The perfect
profile, sweet and pure,--
Never I dream you aright!

And new in endless ways,
By your blessed heart unplanned,
It is
mine to surprise each sweeter phase,
Adore you, and understand;

For through every delicious change in you
Truth burns with a clear
still flame;
And, though always I know you anew,
Always I find
you the same!
THE RIVAL CELESTIAL
God, wilt Thou never leave my love alone?
Thou comest when she
first draws breath in sleep,
Thy cloak blue night, glittering with stars
of gold.
Thou standest in her doorway to intone
The promise of Thy
troth that she must keep,
The wonders of Thy heaven she shall
behold.
Her little room is filled with blinding light,
And past the darkness of
her window-pane
The faces of glad angels closely press,
Gesturing