The White Bees | Page 5

release.
Many months he wandered far away in sadness,
desolately thinking
Only of the vanished joys he could not find;
Till
the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed
him from the burden
Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.
Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty
of the changing seasons,
In the world-wide regions where his journey
lay;
Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed
beside him, stars that shone to guide him,--
Traveller's joy was plenty
all along the way!
Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him
welcome, listened while he taught them
Secret lore of field and forest
he had learned:
How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful;
how to guard the sheepfolds;
How to stay the fever when the dog-star
burned.
Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps;
richer were the harvests,
Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came;


Little children loved him, and he left behind him,
in the hour of parting,
Memories of kindness and a god-like name.
So he travelled onward, desolate no longer,
patient in his seeking,
Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest;

Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus,
far from human dwelling,
Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.
Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness,
fluttered soft around him,
Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and
deep.
This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden,
then a troubled journey,
Joy and pain of seeking,--and at last we
sleep!
NEW YEAR'S EVE
I
The other night I had a dream, most clear
And comforting, complete

In every line, a crystal sphere,
And full of intimate and secret cheer.

Therefore I will repeat
That vision, dearest heart, to you,
As of a
thing not feigned, but very true,
Yes, true as ever in my life befell;

And you, perhaps, can tell
Whether my dream was really sad or
sweet.
II
The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street
I knew so well, long,
long ago;
And on the pillared porch where Marguerite
Had sat with
me, the moonlight lay like snow.
But she, my comrade and my friend
of youth,
Most gaily wise,
Most innocently loved,--
She of the

blue-grey eyes
That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,--
From
that familiar dwelling, where she moved
Like mirth incarnate in the
years before,
Had gone into the hidden house of Death.
I thought
the garden wore
White mourning for her blessed innocence,
And
the syringa's breath
Came from the corner by the fence,
Where she
had made her rustic seat,
With fragrance passionate, intense,
As if it
breathed a sigh for Marguerite.
My heart was heavy with a sense
Of
something good forever gone. I sought
Vainly for some consoling
thought,
Some comfortable word that I could say
To the sad father,
whom I visited again
For the first time since she had gone away.

The bell rang shrill and lonely,--then
The door was opened, and I sent
my name
To him,--but ah! 't was Marguerite who came!
There in
the dear old dusky room she stood
Beneath the lamp, just as she used
to stand,
In tender mocking mood.
"You did not ask for me," she
said,
"And so I will not let you take my hand;
"But I must hear what
secret talk you planned
"With father. Come, my friend, be good,

"And tell me your affairs of state:
"Why you have stayed away and
made me wait
"So long. Sit down beside me here,--
"And, do you
know, it seemed a year
"Since we have talked together,--why so
late?"
Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy
I hardly dared to show,

And stammering like a boy,
I took the place she showed me at her
side;
And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide
Through the
still night,
While she with influence light
Controlled it, as the moon
the flood.

She knew where I had been, what I had done,
What work
was planned, and what begun;
My troubles, failures, fears she
understood,
And touched them with a heart so kind,
That every care
was melted from my mind,
And every hope grew bright,
And life
seemed moving on to happy ends.
(Ah, what self-beggared fool was
he
That said a woman cannot be
The very best of friends?)
Then
there were memories of old times,
Recalled with many a gentle jest;

And at the last she brought the book of rhymes
We made together,

trying to translate
The Songs of Heine (hers were always best).

"Now come," she said,
"To-night we will collaborate
"Again; I'll
put you to the test.
"Here's one I never found the way to do,--
"The
simplest are the hardest ones, you know,--
"I give this song to you."

And then she read:
Mein kind, wir waren Kinder,
Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.
But all the while a silent question stirred
Within me, though I dared
not speak the word:
"Is it herself, and is she truly here,
"And was I
dreaming when I heard
"That she was dead last year?
"Or was it
true, and is she but a shade
"Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear,

"Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade
"When her sweet
ghostly part is played
"And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"

But while my heart was troubled by this fear
So deeply that I could
not speak it out,
Lest all my happiness should disappear,
I