would shatter, and this heart?I fain would break--this heart that, traitor-like,?Beats on with foolish and elastic beat:?If, after all, this life I waste and kill?Should still be thine, may still be lived for thee!?And this the dreadful trial of my love,?This silence and this blank that makes me mad,?That I be man to-day of all the days?My one poor hope of meeting thee again--?If Death be Love, and God's great purpose kind!
Oh, love, if some day on the heavenly stair?A wild ecstatic moment we should stand,?And I, all hungry for your eyes and hair,?Should meet instead your great accusing gaze,?And hear, instead of welcome into heaven:?'Ah! hadst thou but been true! but manfully?Borne the high pangs that all high souls must bear,?Nor fled to low nepenthes for your pain!?Hadst said--"Is she not here? more reason then?To live as though still guarded by her eyes,?Cleaner my thought, and purer be my deed;?True will I be, though God Himself be false!"'
Oh, hadst thou thus been man, to-day had we?Walked on together undivided now--?But now a thousand flaming years must pass,?And all the trial be gone o'er again.
SPIRIT OF SADNESS
She loved the Autumn, I the Spring,?Sad all the songs she loved to sing;?And in her face was strangely set?Some great inherited regret.
Some look in all things made her sigh,?Yea! sad to her the morning sky:?'So sad! so sad its beauty seems'--?I hear her say it still in dreams.
But when the day grew grey and old,?And rising stars shone strange and cold,?Then only in her face I saw?A mystic glee, a joyous awe.
Spirit of Sadness, in the spheres?Is there an end of mortal tears??Or is there still in those great eyes?That look of lonely hills and skies?
AN INSCRIPTION
Precious the box that Mary brake?Of spikenard for her Master's sake,?But ah! it held nought half so dear?As the sweet dust that whitens here.?The greater wonder who shall say:?To make so white a soul of clay,?From clay to win a face so fair,?Those strange great eyes, that sunlit hair?A-ripple o'er her witty brain,--?Or turn all back to dust again.
Who knows--but, in some happy hour,?The God whose strange alchemic power?Wrought her of dust, again may turn?To woman this immortal urn.
SONG
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,?Her tears are in the falling rain,?She calls me in the wind's soft song,?And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,?The moon is but her silver car;?Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,?And every wistful waiting star.
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