Kitabı oku: «Verses», sayfa 4

SAVOIR C'EST PARDONNER

 
  Myriad rivers seek the sea,
    The sea rejects not any one;
  A myriad rays of light may be
    Clasped in the compass of one sun;
  And myriad grasses, wild and free,
    Drink of the dew which faileth none.
 
 
  A myriad worlds encompass ours;
    A myriad souls our souls enclose;
  And each, its sins and woes and powers,
    The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows,
  And from the Infinite Knowledge flowers
    The Infinite Pity's fadeless rose.
 
 
  Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise;
    All-seeing One, give us to see;
  Our judgments are profanities,
    Our ignorance is cruelty,
  While Thou, knowing all, dost not despise
    To pardon even such things as we.
 

MORNING

 
  O word and thing most beautiful!
  Our yesterday was cold and dull,
    Gray mists obscured the setting sun,
  Its evening wept with sobbing rain;
  But to and fro, mid shrouding night,
    Some healing angel swift has run,
  And all is fresh and fair again.
 
 
  O, word and thing most beautiful!
  The hearts, which were of cares so full,
    The tired hands, the tired feet,
  So glad of night, are glad of morn,—
  Where are the clouds of yesterday?
    The world is good, the world is sweet,
  And life is new and hope re-born.
 
 
  O, word and thing most beautiful!
  O coward soul and sorrowful,
    Which sighs to note the ebbing light
  Give place to evening's shadowy gray!
    What are these things but parables,—
  That darkness heals the wrongs of day,
    And dawning clears all mists of night.
 
 
  O, word and thing most beautiful!
  The little sleep our cares to lull,
    The long, soft dusk and then sunrise,
  To waken fresh and angel fair,
    Lite all renewed and cares forgot,
    Ready for Heaven's glad surprise.
  So Christ, who is our Light, be there.
 

A BLIND SINGER

 
  In covert of a leafy porch,
      Where woodbine clings,
  And roses drop their crimson leaves,
      He sits and sings;
  With soft brown crest erect to hear,
      And drooping wings.
 
 
  Shut in a narrow cage, which bars
      His eager flight,
  Shut in the darker prison-house
      Of blinded sight,
  Alike to him are sun and stars,
      The day, the night.
 
 
  But all the fervor of high noon,
      Hushed, fragrant, strong,
  And all the peace of moonlit nights
    When nights are long,
  And all the bliss of summer eves,
    Breathe in his song.
 
 
  The rustle of the fresh green woods,
    The hum of bee,
  The joy of flight, the perfumed waft
    Of blossoming tree,
  The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill
   Of liberty,—
 
 
  All blend and mix, while evermore,
    Now and again,
  A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,
    A low refrain,
  Caught from some shadowy memory
    Of patient pain.
 
 
  In midnight black, when all men sleep,
    My singer wakes,
  And pipes his lovely melodies,
    And trills and shakes.
  The dark sky bends to listen, but
    No answer makes.
 
 
  O, what is joy? In vain we grasp
    Her purple wings;
  Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwell
    With humble things;
  She shares my sightless singer's cage,
    And so—he sings.
 

MARY

 
  The drowsy summer in the flowering limes
     Had laid her down at ease,
  Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimes
     Summoned the wandering bees
  To feast, and dance, and hold high carnival
  Within that vast and fragrant banquet-hall.
 
 
  She stood, my Mary, on the wall below,
     Poised on light, arching feet,
  And drew the long, green branches down to show
     Where hung, mid odors sweet,—
  A tiny miracle to touch and view,—
  The humming-bird's, small nest and pearls of blue.
 
 
  Fair as the summer's self she stood, and smiled,
     With eyes like summer sky,
  Wistful and glad, half-matron and half-child,
     Gentle and proud and shy;
  Her sweet head framed against the blossoming bough,
  She stood a moment,—and she stands there now!
 
 
  'Tis sixteen years since, trustful, unafraid,
     In her full noon of light,
  She passed beneath the grass's curtaining shade,
     Out of our mortal sight;
  And springs and summers, bearing gifts to men,
  And long, long winters have gone by since then.
 
 
  And each some little gift has brought to dress
     That unforgotten bed,—
  Violet, anemone, or lady's-tress,
     Or spray of berries red,
  Or purpling leaf, or mantle, pure and cold,
  Of winnowed snow, wrapped round it, fold on fold.
 
 
  Yet still she stands, a glad and radiant shape,
     Set in the morning fair,—
  That vanished morn which had such swift escape.
     I turn and see her there,—
  The arch, sweet smile, the bending, graceful head;
  And, seeing thus, why do I call her dead?
 

WHEN LOVE WENT

 
  What whispered Love the day he fled?
  Ah! this was what Love whispered;
  "You sought to hold me with a chain;
  I fly to prove such holding vain.
 
 
  "You bound me burdens, and I bore
  The burdens hard, the burdens sore;
  I bore them all unmurmuring,
  For Love can bear a harder thing.
 
 
  "You taxed me often, teased me, wept;
  I only smiled, and still I kept
  Through storm and sun and night and day,
  My joyous, viewless, faithful way.
 
 
  "But, dear, once dearest, you and I
  This day have parted company.
  Love must be free to give, defer,
  Himself alone his almoner.
 
 
  "As free I freely poured my all,
  Enslaved I spurn, renounce my thrall,
  Its wages and its bitter bread."
  Thus whispered Love the day he fled!
 

OVERSHADOWED

"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them."

 
  Mid the thronged bustle of the city street,
    In the hot hush of noon,
  I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet.
    Surely He will come soon.
  Surely the Healer will not pass me by,
  But listen to my cry.
 
 
  Long are the hours in which I lie and wait,
    Heavy the load I bear;
  But He will come ere evening. Soon or late
    I shall behold Him there;
  Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through;
  "What wilt thou that I do?"
 
 
  "If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean."
    Thus shall I answer swift.
  And He will touch me, as He walks serene;
    And I shall rise and lift
  This couch, so long my prison-house of pain,
  And be made whole again.
 
 
  He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum.
    The multitudes press on
  After some leader. Surely He is come!
    He nears me; He is gone!
  Only His shadow reached me, as He went;
  Yet here I rest content.
 
 
  In that dear shadow, like some healing spell,
    A heavenly patience lay;
  Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell;
    My pains all fled away,—
  The weariness, the deep unrest of soul;
  I am indeed "made whole."
 
 
  It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divine
    Was turned to other men.
  Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine,
    Thou wilt come once again;
  And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me,
  What must Thy presence be?
 

TIME TO GO

 
      They know the time to go!
  The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour
  In field and woodland, and each punctual flower
  Bows at the signal an obedient head
      And hastes to bed.
 
 
      The pale Anemone
  Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night;
  The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;
  Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,
      In blithesome lines,
 
 
      Drop their last courtesies,
  Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest;
  The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest
  And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;
      Fair and serene,
 
 
      Her sister Lily floats
  On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes
  To court the golden splendor of the skies,—
  The sudden signal comes, and down she goes
      To find repose,
 
 
      In the cool depths below,
  A little later, and the Asters blue
  Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;
  While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,
      Turns him away,
 
 
      Furls his bright parasol,
  And, like a little hero, meets his fate.
  The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,
  Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set
      'Neath coverlet,
 
 
      Downy and soft and warm.
  No little seedling voice is heard to grieve
  Or make complaints the folding woods beneath;
  No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know
      The time to go.
 
 
      Teach us your patience, brave,
  Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,
  Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true,
  That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,
      With smiles, not sorrow.
 

GULF-STREAM

 
  Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way,
    Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm,
  Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray,
    Mateless, yet conscious ever of a warm
  And brooding presence close to mine all day.
 
 
  What is this alien thing, so near, so far,
    Close to my life always, but blending never?
  Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates unbar
    Not at the instance of my strong endeavor
  To pierce the stronghold where their secrets are?
 
 
  Buoyant, impalpable, relentless, thin,
    Rise the clear, mocking walls. I strive in vain
  To reach the pulsing heart that beats within,
    Or with persistence of a cold disdain,
  To quell the gladness which I may not win.
 
 
  Forever sundered and forever one,
    Linked by a bond whose spell I may not guess,
  Our hostile, yet embracing currents run;
    Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness.
  Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun.
 
 
  Yet even in my wrath a wild regret
    Mingles; a bitterness of jealous strife
  Tinges my fury as I foam and fret
    Against the borders of that calmer life,
  Beside whose course my wrathful course is set.
 
 
  But all my anger, all my pain and woe,
    Are vain to daunt her gladness; all the while
  She goes rejoicing, and I do not know,
    Catching the soft irradiance of her smile,
  If I am most her lover or her foe.
 

MY WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM

 
  As purely white as is the drifted snow,
     More dazzling fair than summer roses are,
     Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star,
  When winds pipe chilly, and red sunsets glow,
       Your blossoms blow.
 
 
  Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own,
     In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies,
     Like wholesome breath mid honeyed flatteries;
  When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown,
        You stand alone.
 
 
  Fronting the winter with a fearless grace,
     Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill,
     Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still,
  Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place
        A smiling face.
 
 
  Roses are fair, but frail, and soon grow faint,
     Nor can endure a hardness; violets blue,
     Short-lived and sweet, live but a day or two;
  The nun-like lily bows without complaint,
        And dies a saint.
 
 
  Each following each they hasten them away,
     And leave us to our winter and our rue,
     Sad and uncomforted; you, only you,
  Dear, hardy lover, keep your faith and stay
        Long as you may.
 
 
  And so we choose you out from all the rest,
     For that most noble word of "Loyalty,"
     Which blazoned on your petals seems to be;
  Winter is near,—stay with us; be our guest,
        The last and best.
 

TILL THE DAY DAWN

 
  Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words,
     Words all discordant with a foolish pain?
  Thoughts cannot interrupt or prayers do wrong,
     And soft and silent as the summer rain
  Mine fall upon your pathway all day long.
 
 
  Giving as God gives, counting not the cost
     Of broken box or spilled and fragrant oil,
  I know that, spite of your strong carelessness,
     Rest must be sweeter, worthier must be toil,
  Touched with such mute, invisible caress.
 
 
  One of these days, our weary ways quite trod,
     Made free at last and unafraid of men,
  I shall draw near and reach to you my hand.
     And you? Ah! well, we shall be spirits then,
  I think you will be glad and understand.
 

MY BIRTHDAY

 
  Who is this who gently slips
     Through my door, and stands and sighs,
  Hovering in a soft eclipse,
  With a finger on her lips
    And a meaning in her eyes?
 
 
  Once she came to visit me
     In white robes with festal airs,
  Glad surprises, songs of glee;
  Now in silence cometh she,
     And a sombre garb she wears.
 
 
  Once I waited and was tired,
     Chid her visits as too few;
  Crownless now and undesired,
  She to seek me is inspired
     Oftener than she used to do.
 
 
  Grave her coming is and still,
     Sober her appealing mien,
  Tender thoughts her glances fill;
  But I shudder, as one will
     When an open grave is seen.
 
 
  Wherefore, friend,—for friend thou art,—
     Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?
  Wherefore push thee from my heart?
  Of my morning thou wert part;
     Be a part too of my eve.
 
 
  See, I hold my hand to meet
     That cool, shadowy hand of thine;
  Hold it firmly, it is sweet
  Thus to clasp and thus to greet,
     Though no more in full sunshine.
 
 
  Come and freely seek my door,
     I will open willingly;
  I will chide the past no more,
  Looking to the things before,
     Led by pathways known to thee.
 

BY THE CRADLE

 
  The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming—
     Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose;
  And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming,
  Is watching by the cradle hung with snows.
 
 
  Her blowing winds but keep the rockers swinging,
     And deepen slumber in the shut blue eyes,
  And the shrill cadences of her high singing
     Are to the babe but wonted lullabies.
 
 
  She draws the coverlet white and tucks it trimly,
     She folds the little sleeper safe from harm;
  Or bends to lift the veil, and, peering inly,
     Makes sure it lies all undisturbed and warm.
 
 
  And so she sits, till in the still, gray dawning
     Two fairer nurses come, her place to take,
  And smiling, beaming, with no word of warning,
     Draw off the quilt, and kiss the babe awake.
 

A THUNDER STORM

 
  The day was hot and the day was dumb,
  Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum,
     Not a bird was seen or a butterfly,
  And ever till noon was over, the sun
     Glared down with a yellow and terrible eye;
 
 
  Glared down in the woods, where the breathless boughs
  Hung heavy and faint in a languid drowse,
     And the ferns were curling with thirst and heat;
  Glared down on the fields where the sleepy cows
     Stood munching the grasses, dry and sweet.
 
 
  Then a single cloud rose up in the west,
  With a base of gray and a white, white crest;
     It rose and it spread a mighty wing.
  And swooped at the sun, though he did his best
     And struggled and fought like a wounded thing.
 
 
  And the woods awoke, and the sleepers heard,
  Each heavily hanging leaflet stirred
     With a little expectant quiver and thrill,
  As the cloud bent over and uttered a word,—
     One volleying, rolling syllable.
 
 
  And once and again came the deep, low tone
  Which only to thunder's lips is known,
     And the earth held up her fearless face
  And listened as if to a signal blown,—
     A signal-trump in some heavenly place.
 
 
  The trumpet of God, obeyed on high,
  His signal to open the granary
     And send forth his heavily loaded wains
  Rambling and roaring down the sky
     And scattering the blessed, long-harvested rains.