Hark, the rain is on my roof!Every sound drops through the darkOn my soul with dull reproof,Like a half-extinguished spark.I! alas, how am I here,In the midnight and alone?Caught within a net of fear!All my dreams of beauty gone!
I will rise: I must go forth.Better face the hideous night,Better dare the unseen north,Than be still without the light!Black wind rushing round my brow,Sown with stinging points of rain!Place or time I know not now—I am here, and so is pain!
I will leave the sleeping street,Hie me forth on darker roads.Ah! I cannot stay my feet,Onward, onward, something goads.I will take the mountain path,Beard the storm within its den,Know the worst of this dim wrath,Vexing thus the souls of men.
Chasm 'neath chasm! rock piled on rock:Roots, and crumbling earth, and stones!Hark, the torrent's thundering shock!Hark, the swaying pine tree's groans!Ah, I faint, I fall, I die!Sink to nothingness away!—Lo, a streak upon the sky!Lo, the opening eye of day!
Mountain heights that lift their snowsO'er a valley green and low;And a winding path, that goesGuided by the river's flow;And a music rising ever,As of peace and low content,From the pebble-paven riverAs an odour upward sent.
And a sighing of the stormFar away amid the hills,Like the humming of a swarmThat the summer forest fills;And a frequent fall of rainFrom a cloud with ragged weft;And a burst of wind amainFrom the mountain's sudden cleft.
Then a night that hath a moon,Staining all the cloudy white;Sinking with a soundless tuneDeep into the spirit's night.Then a morning clear and soft,Amber on the purple hills;Warm high day of summer, oftCooled by wandering windy rills.
Joy to travel thus along,With the universe around!I the centre of the throng;Every sight and every soundSpeeding with its burden laden,Speeding homewards to my soul!Mine the eye the stars are made in!I the heart of all this whole!
Hills retreat on either hand,Sinking down into the plain;Slowly through the level landGlides the river to the main.What is that before me, white,Gleaming through the dusky air?Dimmer in the gathering night;Still beheld, I know not where?
Is it but a chalky ridge,Bared by many a trodden mark?Or a river-spanning bridge,Miles away into the dark?Or the foremost leaping wavesOf the everlasting sea,Where the Undivided lavesTime with its eternity?
No, tis but an eye-made sight,In my brain a fancied gleam;Or a thousand things as white,Set in darkness, well might seem.There it wavers, shines, is gone;What it is I cannot tell;When the morning star hath shone,I shall see and know it well.
Onward, onward through the night!Matters it I cannot see?I am moving in a might,Dwelling in the dark and me.Up or down, or here or there,I can never be alone;My own being tells me whereGod is as the Father known.
Joy! O joy! the Eastern seaAnswers to the Eastern sky;Wide and featured gloriouslyWith swift billows bursting high.Nearer, nearer, oh! the sheenOn a thousand waves at once!Oh! the changing crowding green!Oh my beating heart's response!
Down rejoicing to the strand,Where the sea-waves shore-ward lean,Curve their graceful heads, and standGleaming with ethereal green,Then in foam fall heavily—This is what I saw at night!Lo, a boat! I'll forth on thee,Dancing-floor for my delight.
From the bay, wind-winged, we glance;Sea-winds seize me by the hair!What a terrible expanse!How the ocean tumbles there!I am helpless here afloat,For the wild waves know not me;Gladly would I change my boatFor the snow wings of the sea!
Look below. Each watery whirlCast in beauty's living mould!Look above! Each feathery curlFaintly tinged with morning gold!—Oh, I tremble with the gushOf an everlasting youth!Love and fear together rush:I am free in God, the Truth!
We doubt the word that tells us: Ask,And ye shall have your prayer;We turn our thoughts as to a task,With will constrained and rare.
And yet we have; these scanty prayersYield gold without alloy:O God! but he that trusts and daresMust have a boundless joy.
When round the earth the Father's handsHave gently drawn the dark;Sent off the sun to fresher lands,And curtained in the lark;'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,To fade with faded light;To lie once more, the old weary way,Upfolded in the night.
A mother o'er the couch may bend,And rose-leaf kisses heap:In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,Till even in dreams we sleep.And, if we wake while night is dumb,'Tis sweet to turn and say,It is an hour ere dawning come,And I will sleep till day.
There is a dearer, warmer bed,Where one all day may lie,Earth's bosom pillowing the head,And let the world go by.Instead of mother's love-lit eyes,The church's storied pane,All blank beneath cold starry skies,Or sounding in the rain.
The great world, shouting, forward fares:This chamber, hid from none,Hides safe from all, for no one caresFor those whose work is done.Cheer thee, my heart, though tired and slowAn unknown grassy placeSomewhere on earth is waiting nowTo rest thee from thy race.
There is a calmer than all calms,A quiet more deep than death:A folding in the Father's palms,A breathing in his breath;A rest made deeper by alarmsAnd stormy sounds combined:The child within its mother's armsSleeps sounder for the wind.
There needs no curtained bed to hideThe world with all its wars,Nor grassy cover to divideFrom sun and moon and starsA window open to the skies,A sense of changeless life,With oft returning still surpriseRepels the sounds of strife.
As one bestrides a wild scared horseBeneath a stormy moon,And still his heart, with quiet force,Beats on its own calm tune;So if my heart with trouble nowBe throbbing in my breast,Thou art my deeper heart, and Thou,O God, dost ever rest.
When mighty sea-winds madly blow,And tear the scattered waves;As still as summer woods, belowLie darkling ocean caves:The wind of words may toss my heart,But what is that to me!'Tis but a surface storm—Thou artMy deep, still, resting sea.
I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,Enduring long; till a faint dawn revealed
A temple's front, cloud-curtained on the plain.Closed were the lofty doors that led within;But by a wicket one might entrance gain.
O light, and awe, and silence! Entering in,The blackness and chaotic rain were lostIn hopeful spaces. Then I heard a thin
Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed,As if they sought a harmony to findWhich they knew once; but none of all that host
Could call the far-fled music back to mind.Loud voices, distance-low, wandered alongThe pillared paths, and up the arches twined
With sister-arches, rising, throng on throng,Up to the roof's dim distance. If sometimesSelf-gathered voices made a burst of song,
Straightway I heard again but as the chimesOf many bells through Sabbath morning sent,Each its own tale to tell of heavenly climes.
Yet such the hope, one might be well contentHere to be low, and lowly keep a door;For like Truth's herald, solemnly that went,
I heard thy voice, and humbly loved it more,Walking the word-sea to this ear of mine,Than any voice of power I heard before.
Yet as the harp may, tremulous, combineLow ghostlike sounds with organ's loudest tone,Let not my music fear to come to thine:
Thy heart, with organ-tempests of its own,Will hear Aeolian sighs from thin chords blown.
First-born of the creating Voice!Minister of God's spirit, who wast sentTo wait upon Him first, what time He wentMoving about 'mid the tumultuous noiseOf each unpiloted elementUpon the face of the void formless deep!Thou who didst come unbodied and alone,Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep,Or ever the moon shone,Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven!Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirtFalleth on all things from the lofty heaven!Thou Comforter, be with me as thou wertWhen first I longed for words, to beA radiant garment for my thought, like thee.
We lay us down in sorrow,Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night;In vexing dreams we 'strive until the morrow;Grief lifts our eyelids up—and lo, the light!The sunlight on the wall! And visions riseOf shining leaves that make sweet melodies;Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests;Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down;Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts;Of clouds that show thy glory as their own.O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by,Light, gladness, motion, are Reality!
Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springsFar up to catch thy glory on his wings;And thou dost bless him first that highest soars.The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowersWorship thee all day long, and through the skiesFollow thy journey with their earnest eyes.River of life, thou pourest on the woods;And on thy waves float forth the wakening buds;The trees lean towards thee, and, in loving pain,Keep turning still to see thee yet again.And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low:Where'er thou art, on every side,All things are glorified;And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throwBeautiful shadows, made out of the Dark,That else were shapeless. Loving thou dost markThe sadness on men's faces, and dost seekTo make all things around of hope and gladness speak.
And men have worshipped thee.The Persian, on his mountain-top,Kneeling doth wait until thy sun go up,God-like in his serenity.All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near;And the wide earth waits till his face appear—Longs patient. And the herald glory leapsAlong the ridges of the outlying clouds,Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps;And a quiet multitudinous laughter crowdsThe universal face, as, silently,Up cometh he, the never-closing eye.Symbol of Deity! men could not beFarthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee.
Thou plaything of the child,When from the water's surface thou dost fallIn mazy dance, ethereal motion wild,Like his own thoughts, upon the chamber wall;Or through the dust darting in long thin streams!How I have played with thee, and longed to climbOn sloping ladders of thy moted beams!And how I loved thee falling from the moon!And most about the mellow harvest-time,When night had softly settled down,And thou from her didst flow, a sea of love.And then the stars, ah me! that flashed aboveAnd the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide!While here and there mysterious earthly shiningCame forth of windows from the hill and glen;Each ray of thine so wondrously entwiningWith household love and rest of weary men.And still I am a child, thank God! To seeThee streaming from a bit of broken glass,That else on the brown earth lay undescried,Is a high joy, a glorious thing to me,A spark that lights the light of joy within,A thought of Hope to Prophecy akin,That from my spirit fruitless will not pass.
Thou art the joy of Age:The sun is dear even when long shadows fall.Forth to the sunlight the old man doth crawl,Enlivened like the bird in his poor cage.Close by the door, no further, in his chairThe old man sits; and sitteth thereHis soul within him, like a child that liesHalf dreaming, with his half-shut eyes,At close of a long afternoon in summer;High ruins round him, ancient ruins, whereThe raven is almost the only comer;And there he broods in wondermentOn the celestial glory sentThrough the rough loopholes, on the golden bloomThat waves above the cornice on the wall,Where lately dwelt the echoes of the room;And drinking in the yellow lights that lieUpon the ivy tapestry.So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old,But sleepy 'mid the ruins that infold.
What meanings various thou callest forthUpon the face of the still passive earth!Even like a lord of music bentOver his instrument;Whether, at hour of sovereign noon,Infinite cataracts sheet silent down;Or a strange yellow radiance slanting passBetwixt long shadows o'er the meadow grass,When from the lower edge of a dark cloudThe sun at eve his blessing head hath bowed;Whether the moon lift up her shining shield,High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed;Or crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away,Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray,Her still face seeming more to think than see,She makes the pale world lie in dreams of thee.Each hour of day, each hour of thoughtful night,Hath a new poem in the changing light.
Of highest unity the sole emblem!In whom all colours that our eyes can seeIn rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem,Unite in living oneness, purity,And operative power! whose every partIs beauty to the eyes, and truth unto the heart!Outspread in yellow sands, blue sea and air,Green growing corn, and scarlet poppies there;—Regent of colours, thou, the undefiled!Whether in dark eyes of the laughing child,Or in the vast white cloud that floats away,Bearing upon its breast a brown moon-ray;The universal painter, who dost flingThy overflowing skill on everything!The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers,Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours;And all the gems and ores that hidden be,Are dead till they are looked upon by thee.
Everywhere,Thou art shining through the air;Every atom from anotherTakes thee, gives thee to his brother;Continually,Thou art falling on the sea,Bathing the deep woods down below,Making the sea-flowers bud and blow;Silently,Thou art working ardently,Bringing from the night of noughtInto being and to thought;InfluencesEvery beam of thine dispenses,Powerful, varied, reaching far,Differing in every star.Not an iron rod can lieIn circle of thy beamy eye,But thy look doth change it soThat it cannot choose but showThou, the worker, hast been there;Yea, sometimes, on substance rare,Thou dost leave thy ghostly markIn what men do call the dark.Doer, shower, mighty teacher!Truth-in-beauty's silent preacher!Universal something sentTo shadow forth the Excellent!
When the firstborn affections,Those winged seekers of the world within,That search about in all directions,Some bright thing for themselves to win,Through unmarked forest-paths, and gathering fogs,And stony plains, and treacherous bogs,Long, long, have followed faces fair,Fair faces without souls, that vanished into air;And darkness is around them and above,Desolate, with nought to love;And through the gloom on every side,Strange dismal forms are dim descried;And the air is as the breathFrom the lips of void-eyed Death;And the knees are bowed in prayerTo the Stronger than Despair;Then the ever-lifted cry,Give us light, or we shall die,Cometh to the Father's ears,And He listens, and He hears:And when men lift up their eyes,Lo, Truth slow dawning in the skies!'Tis as if the sun gleamed forthThrough the storm-clouds of the north.And when men would name this Truth,Giver of gladness and of youth,They can call it nought but Light—'Tis the morning, 'twas the night.Yea, every thought of hope outspreadOn the mountain's misty head,Is a fresh aurora, sentThrough the spirit's firmament,Telling, through the vapours dun,Of the coming, coming sun.
All things most excellentAre likened unto thee, excellent thing!Yea, He who from the Father forth was sent,Came the true Light, light to our hearts to bring;The Word of God, the telling of His thought;The Light of God, the making-visible;The far-transcending glory broughtIn human form with man to dwell;The dazzling gone; the power not lessTo show, irradiate, and bless;The gathering of the primal rays divine,Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine!
Death, darkness, nothingness!Life, light, and blessedness!
* * * * *
Dull horrid pools no motion making;No bubble on the surface breaking;Through the dead heavy air, no sound;Asleep and moveless on the marshy ground.
* * * * *
Rushing winds and snow-like drift,Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift;Hair-like vapours madly riven;Waters smitten into dust;Lightning through the turmoil driven,Aimless, useless, yet it must.
* * * * *
Gentle winds through forests calling;Big waves on the sea-shore falling;Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing;Light boats on the big waves dancing;Children in the clear pool laving;Mountain streams glad music giving;Yellow corn and green grass waving;Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living;Light on all things, even as now—God, our Father, it is Thou!Light, O Radiant! thou didst come abroad,To mediate 'twixt our ignorance and God;Forming ever without form;Showing, but thyself unseen;Pouring stillness on the storm;Making life where death had been!If thou, Light, didst cease to be,Death and Chaos soon were out,Weltering o'er the slimy sea,Riding on the whirlwind's rout;And if God did cease to be,O Beloved! where were we?
Father of Lights, pure and unspeakable,On whom no changing shadow ever fell!Thy light we know not, are content to see;And shall we doubt because we know not Thee?Or, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed,Fear lest dark vapours dwell within thy breast?Nay, nay, ye shadows on our souls descending!Ye bear good witness to the light on high,Sad shades of something 'twixt us and the sky!And this word, known and unknown radiant blending,Shall make us rest, like children in the night,—Word infinite in meaning:God is Light.We walk in mystery all the shining dayOf light unfathomed that bestows our seeing,Unknown its source, unknown its ebb and flow:Thy living light's eternal fountain-playIn ceaseless rainbow pulse bestows our being—Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?O Light, if I had said all I could sayOf thy essential glory and thy might,Something within my heart unsaid yet lay,And there for lack of words unsaid must stay:ForGod is Light.
Thus, once, long since, the daring of my youthDrew nigh thy greatness with a little thing;And thou didst take me in: thy home of truth
Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering,Uplighted by the tenderness and graceWhich round thy absolute friendship ever fling
A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy faceFrom that small part of earnest thanks, I pray,Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.
I saw thee as a strong man on his way!Up the great peaks: I know thee stronger still;Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,
Upheld and ordered by a regnant will;While Wisdom, seer and priest of holy Fate,Searches all truths, its prophecy to fill:
Yet, O my friend, throned in thy heart so great,High Love is queen, and hath no equal mate.
May, 1857.
Were I a skilful painter,My pencil, not my pen,Should try to teach thee hope and fear;And who should blame me then?Fear of the tide-like darknessThat followeth close behind,And hope to make thee journey onIn the journey of the mind.
Were I a skilful painter,What should my painting be?A tiny spring-bud peeping forthFrom a withered wintry tree.The warm blue sky of summerAbove the mountain snow,Whence water in an infant stream,Is trying how to flow.
The dim light of a beaconUpon a stormy sea,Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds,Yet call themselves the free.One sunbeam faintly gleamingAthwart a sullen cloud,Like dawning peace upon a browIn angry weeping bowed.
Morn climbing o'er the mountain,While the vale is full of night,And a wanderer, looking for the east,Rejoicing in the sight.A taper burning dimlyAmid the dawning grey,And a maiden lifting up her head,And lo, the coming day!
And thus, were I a painter,My pencil, not my pen,Should try to teach thee hope and fear;And who should blame me then?Fear of the tide-like darknessThat followeth close behind,And hope to make thee journey onIn the journey of the mind.
If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,Pacing it wearily, wearily,From chapel to cell till day were done,Wearily, wearily,Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours,That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?
To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call,Morning foul or fair;Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall—Words, but hardly prayer;Vainly trying the thoughts to raise,Which, in the sunshine, would burst in praise.
Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,The God revealing,Turning thy face from the boundless boon,Painfully kneeling;Or in thy chamber's still solitude,Bending thy head o'er the legend rude.
I, in a cool and lonely nook,Gloomily, gloomily,Poring over some musty book,Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;Or on the parchment margin unrolled,Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.
Perchance in slow procession to meet,Wearily, wearily,In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street,Wearily, wearily;Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and thenHeavily sinking to earth again.
Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!Merrily, merrily!Back to its cell each weary thing,Wearily, wearily!And the heart so withered, and dry, and old,Most at home in the cloister cold.
Thou on thy knees at the vespers' call,Wearily, wearily;I looking up on the darkening wall,Wearily, wearily;The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,Listless and dead to thee and me!
Then to the lone couch at death of day,Wearily, wearily;Rising at midnight again to pray,Wearily, wearily;And if through the dark those eyes looked in,Sending them far as a thought of sin.
And then, when thy spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The earth-born dwelling returning to clay,Sleepily, sleepily;Over thee held the crucified Best,But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.
And when my spirit was passing away,Dreamily, dreamily;The grey head lying 'mong ashes grey,Sleepily, sleepily;No hovering angel-woman above,Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.
But now, beloved, thy hand in mine,Peacefully, peacefully;My arm around thee, my lips on thine,Lovingly, lovingly,—Oh! is not a better thing to us givenThan wearily going alone to heaven?
A quiet heart, submissive, meek,Father do thou bestow;Which more than granted will not seekTo have, or give, or know.
Each green hill then will hold its giftForth to my joying eyes;The mountains blue will then upliftMy spirit to the skies.
The falling water then will soundAs if for me alone;Nay, will not blessing more aboundThat many hear its tone?
The trees their murmuring forth will send,The birds send forth their song;The waving grass its tribute lend,Sweet music to prolong.
The water-lily's shining cup,The trumpet of the bee,The thousand odours floating up,The many-shaded sea;
The rising sun's imprinted treadUpon the eastward waves;The gold and blue clouds over head;The weed from far sea-caves;
All lovely things from south to north,All harmonies that be,Each will its soul of joy send forthTo enter into me.
And thus the wide earth I shall hold,A perfect gift of thine;Richer by these, a thousandfold,Than if broad lands were mine.
Behind my father's house there liesA little grassy brae,Whose face my childhood's busy feetRan often up in play,Whence on the chimneys I looked downIn wonderment alway.
Around the house, where'er I turned,Great hills closed up the view;The town 'midst their converging rootsWas clasped by rivers two;From one hill to another sprangThe sky's great arch of blue.
Oh! how I loved to climb their sides,And in the heather lie;The bridle on my arm did holdThe pony feeding by;Beneath, the silvery streams; above,The white clouds in the sky.
And now, in wandering about,Whene'er I see a hill,A childish feeling of delightSprings in my bosom still;And longings for the high unknownFollow and flow and fill.
For I am always climbing hills,And ever passing on,Hoping on some high mountain peakTo find my Father's throne;For hitherto I've only foundHis footsteps in the stone.
And in my wanderings I have metA spirit child like me,Who laid a trusting hand in mine,So fearlessly and free,That so together we have gone,Climbing continually.
Upfolded in a spirit bud,The child appeared in space,Not born amid the silent hills,But in a busy place;And yet in every hill we seeA strange, familiar face.
For they are near our common home;And so in trust we go,Climbing and climbing on and on,Whither we do not know;Not waiting for the mournful dark,But for the dawning slow.
Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,—A long way we have come!Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,—For we have far to roam,Climbing and climbing, till we reachOur Heavenly Father's home.
I know what beauty is, for ThouHast set the world within my heart;Its glory from me will not part;I never loved it more than now.
I know the Sabbath afternoon:The light lies sleeping on the graves;Against the sky the poplar waves;The river plays a Sabbath tune.
Ah, know I not the spring's snow-bell?The summer woods at close of even?Autumn, when earth dies into heaven,And winter's storms, I know them well.
I know the rapture music brings,The power that dwells in ordered tones,A living voice that loves and moans,And speaks unutterable things.
Consenting beauties in a whole;The living eye, the imperial head,The gait of inward music bred,The woman form, a radiant soul.
And splendours all unspoken bideWithin the ken of spirit's eye;And many a glory saileth by,Borne on the Godhead's living tide.
But I leave all, thou man of woe!Put off my shoes, and come to Thee;Thou art most beautiful to me;More wonderful than all I know.
As child forsakes his favourite toy,His sisters' sport, his wild bird's nest;And climbing to his mother's breast,Enjoys yet more his former joy—
I lose to find. On forehead wideThe jewels tenfold light afford:So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,All beauty else is glorified.
I would I were a child,That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!And follow Thee with running feet, or ratherBe led thus through the wild.
How I would hold thy hand!My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,Over this sea and land.
If a dark thing came near,I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,And so forget my fear.
O soul, O soul, rejoice!Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winningWith gentle eyes and voice.
The words like echoes flow.They are too good; mine I can call them never;Such water drinking once, I should feel everAs I had drunk but now.
And yet He said it so;'Twas He who taught our child-lips to say, Father!Like the poor youth He told of, that did gatherHis goods to him, and go.
Ah! Thou dost lead me, God;But it is dark; no stars; the way is dreary;Almost I sleep, I am so very wearyUpon this rough hill-road.
Almost! Nay, Idosleep.There is no darkness save in this my dreaming;Thy Fatherhood above, around, is beaming;Thy hand my hand doth keep.
This torpor one sun-gleamWould break. My soul hath wandered into sleeping;Dream-shades oppress; I call to Thee with weeping,Wake me from this my dream.
And as a man doth say,Lo! I do dream, yet trembleth as he dreameth;While dim and dream-like his true history seemeth,Lost in the perished day;
(For heavy, heavy nightLong hours denies the day) so this dull sorrowUpon my heart, but half believes a morrowWill ever bring thy light.
God, art Thou in the room?Come near my bed; oh! draw aside the curtain;A child's heart would sayFather, were it certainThat it did not presume.
But if this dreary bondI may not break, help Thou thy helpless sleeper;Resting in Thee, my sleep will sink the deeper,All evil dreams beyond.
Father!I dare at length.My childhood, thy gift, all my claim in speaking;Sinful, yet hoping, I to Thee come, seekingThy tenderness, my strength.
Brothers, look there!
What! see ye nothing yet?Knit your eyebrows close, and stare;Send your souls forth in the gaze,As my finger-point is set,Through the thick of the foggy air.Beyond the air, you see the dark;(For the darkness hedges still our ways;)And beyond the dark, oh, lives away!Dim and far down, surely you markA huge world-heap of withered yearsDropt from the boughs of eternity?See ye not something lying there,Shapeless as a dumb despair,Yet a something that spirits can recogniseWith the vision dwelling in their eyes?It hath the form of a man!As a huge moss-rock in a valley green,When the light to freeze began,Thickening with crystals of dark between,Might look like a sleeping man.What think ye it, brothers? I know it well.I know by your eyes ye see it—tell.
'Tis a poor lost soul, alack!It was alive some ages back;One that had wings and might have had eyesI think I have heard that he wrote a book;But he gathered his life up into a nook,And perished amid his own mysteries,Which choked him, because he had not faith,But was proud in the midst of sayings darkWhich God had charactered on his walls;And the light which burned up at intervals,To be spent in reading what God saith,He lazily trimmed it to a spark,And then it went out, and his soul was dark.
Is there aught between thee and me,Soul, that art lying there?Is any life yet left in thee,So that thou couldst but spareA word to reveal the mysteryOf the banished from light and air?
Alas, O soul! thou wert onceAs the soul that cries to thee!Thou hadst thy place in the mystic danceFrom the doors of the far eternity,Issuing still with feet that glanceTo the music of the free!
Alas! O soul, to thinkThat thou wert made like me!With a heart for love, and a thirst to drinkFrom the wells that feed the sea!And with hands of truth to have been a link'Twixt mine and the parent knee;And with eyes to pierce to the further brinkOf things I cannot see!
Alas, alas, my brother!To thee my heart is drawn:My soul had been such another,In the dark amidst the dawn!As a child in the eyes of its motherDead on the flowery lawn!
I mourn for thee, poor friend!A spring from a cliff did drop:To drink by the wayside God would bend,And He found thee a broken cup!He threw thee aside, His way to wendFurther and higher up.
Alack! sad soul, alack!As if I lay in thy grave,I feel the Infinite sucking backThe individual life it gave.Thy spring died to a pool, deep, black,Which the sun from its pit did lave.
Thou might'st have been one of us,Cleaving the storm and fire;Aspiring through faith to the glorious,Higher and ever higher;Till the world of storms look tremulous,Far down, like a smitten lyre!
A hundred years! he mightHave darted through the gloom,Like that swift angel that crossed our flightWhere the thunder-cloud did loom,From his upcast pinions flashing the lightOf some inward word or doom.
It heareth not, brothers, the terrible thing!Sounds no sense to its ear will bring.Hath God forgotten it, alas!Lost in eternity's lumber room?Will the wave of his Spirit never passOver it through the insensate gloom?It lies alone in its lifeless world,As a frozen bud on the earth lies curled;Sightless and soundless, without a cry,On the flat of its own vacuity.
Up, brothers, up! for a storm is nigh;We will smite the wing up the steepest sky;Through the rushing airWe will climb the stairThat to heaven from the vaults doth leap;We will measure its heightBy the strokes of our flight,Its span by the tempest's sweep.What matter the hail or the clashing winds!We know by the tempest we do not lieDead in the pits of eternity.Brothers, let us be strong in our minds,Lest the storm should beat us back,Or the treacherous calm sink from beneath our wings,And lower us gently from our trackTo the depths of forgotten things.Up, brothers, up! 'tis the storm or we!'Tis the storm or God for the victory!
Young, as the day's first-born Titanic brood,Lifting their foreheads jubilant to heaven,Rose the great mountains on my opening dream.And yet the aged peace of countless yearsReposed on every crag and precipiceOutfacing ruggedly the storms that sweptFar overhead the sheltered furrow-vales;Which smiled abroad in green as the clouds brokeDrifting adown the tide of the wind-waves,Till shattered on the mountain rocks. Oh! still,And cold and hard to look upon, like menWho do stern deeds in times of turbulence,Quell the hail-rattle with their granite brows,And let the thunder burst and pass away—They too did gather round sky-dwelling peaksThe trailing garments of the travelling sun,Which he had lifted from his ocean-bed,And swept along his road. They rent them downIn scattering showers upon the trees and grass,In noontide rains with heavy ringing drops,Or in still twilight moisture tenderly.And from their sides were born the gladsome streams;Some creeping gently out in tiny springs,As they were just created, scarce a footFrom the hill's surface, in the matted rootsOf plants, whose green betrays the secret birth;Some hurrying forth from caverns deep and dark,Upfilling to the brim a basin huge,Thick covered with soft moss, greening the wave,As evermore it welled over the edgeUpon the rocks below in boiling heaps;Fit basin for a demi-god at morn,Waking amid the crags, to lave his limbs,Then stride, Hyperion, o'er sun-paven peaks.And down the hill-side sped the fresh-born wave,Now hid from sight in arched caverns cold,Now arrowing slantwise down the terraced steep,Now springing like a child from step to stepOf the rough water-stair; until it foundA deep-hewn passage for its slower course,Guiding it down to lowliness and rest,Betwixt wet walls of darkness, darker yetWith pine trees lining all their sides like hair,Or as their own straight needles clothe their boughs;Until at length in broader light it ran,With more articulate sounds amid the stones,In the slight shadow of the maiden birch,And the stream-loving willow; and ere longGreat blossoming trees dropt flowers upon its breast;Chiefly the crimson-spotted, cream-white flowers,Heaped up in cones amid cone-drooping leaves;Green hanging leaf-cones, towering white flower-conesUpon the great cone-fashioned chestnut tree.Each made a tiny ripple where it fell,The trembling pleasure of the smiling wave,Which bore it then, in slow funereal course,Down to the outspread sunny sheen, where liesThe lake uplooking to the far-off snow,Its mother still, though now so far away;Feeding it still with long descending linesOf shining, speeding streams, that gather peaceIn journeying to the rest of that still lakeNow lying sleepy in the warm red sun,Which says its dear goodnight, and goeth down.
All pale, and withered, and disconsolate,The moon is looking on impatiently;For 'twixt the shining tent-roof of the day,And the sun-deluged lake, for mirror-floor,Her thin pale lamping is too sadly greyTo shoot, in silver-barbed, white-plumed arrows,Cold maiden splendours on the flashing fish:Wait for thy empire Night, day-weary moon!And thou shalt lord it in one realm at least,Where two souls walk a single Paradise.Take to thee courage, for the sun is gone;His praisers, the glad birds, have hid their heads;Long, ghost-like forms of trees lie on the grass;All things are clothed in an obscuring light,Fusing their outline in a dreamy mass;Some faint, dim shadows from thy beauty fallOn the clear lake which melts them half away—Shine faster, stronger, O reviving moon!Burn up, O lamp of Earth, hung high in Heaven!
And through a warm thin summer mist she shines,A silver setting to the diamond stars;And the dark boat cleaveth a glittering way,Where the one steady beauty of the moonMakes many changing beauties on the waveBroken by jewel-dropping oars, which driveThe boat, as human impulses the soul;While, like the sovereign will, the helm's firm lawDirects the whither of the onward force.At length midway he leaves the swaying oarsHalf floating in the blue gulf underneath,And on a load of gathered flowers reclines,Leaving the boat to any air that blows,His soul to any pulse from the unseen heart.Straight from the helm a white hand gleaming flits,And settles on his face, and nestles there,Pale, night-belated butterfly, to sleep.For on her knees his head lies satisfied;And upward, downward, dark eyes look and rest,Finding their home in likeness. Lifting thenHer hair upon her white arm heavily,The overflowing of her beauteousness,Her hand that cannot trespass, singles outSome of the curls that stray across her lap;And mingling dark locks in the pallid light,She asks him which is darker of the twain,Which his, which hers, and laugheth like a lute.But now her hair, an unvexed cataract,Falls dark and heavy round his upturned face,And with a heaven shuts out the shallow sky,A heaven profound, the home of two black stars;Till, tired with gazing, face to face they lie,Suspended, with closed eyelids, in the night;Their bodies bathed in conscious sleepiness,While o'er their souls creeps every rippling breathOf the night-gambols of the moth-winged wind,Flitting a handbreadth, folding up its wings,Its dreamy wings, then spreading them anew,And with an unfelt gliding, like the years,Wafting them to a water-lily bed,Whose shield-like leaves and chalice-bearing armsHold back the boat from the slow-sloping shore,Far as a child might shoot with his toy-bow.There the long drooping grass drooped to the wave;And, ever as the moth-wind lit thereon,A small-leafed tree, whose roots were always cool,Dipped one low bow, with many sister-leaves,Upon the water's face with a low plash,Lifting and dipping yet and yet again;And aye the water-drops rained from the leaves,With music-laughter as they found their home.And from the woods came blossom-fragrance, faint,Or full, like rising, falling harmonies;Luxuriance of life, which overflowsIn scents ethereal on the ocean air;Each breathing on the rest the blessednessOf its peculiar being, filled with goodTill its cup runneth over with delight:They drank the mingled odours as they lay,The air in which the sensuous being breathes,Till summer-sleep fell on their hearts and eyes.
The night was mild and innocent of ill;'Twas but a sleeping day that breathed low,And babbled in its sleep. The moon at lengthGrew sleepy too. Her level glances creptThrough sleeping branches to their curtained eyes,As down the steep bank of the west she slid,Slowly and slowly
But alas! alas!The awful time 'twixt moondown and sunrise!It is a ghostly time. A low thick fogSteamed up and swathed the trees, and overwhelmedThe floating couch with pall on pall of grey.The sky was desolate, dull, and meaningless.The blazing hues of the last sunset eve,And the pale magic moonshine that had madeThe common, strange,—all were swept clean away;The earth around, the great sky over, wereLike a deserted theatre, tomb-dumb;The lights long dead; the first sick grey of mornOozing through rents in the slow-mouldering curtain;The sweet sounds fled away for evermore;Nought left, except a creeping chill, a senseAs if dead deeds were strown upon the stage,As if dead bodies simulated life,And spoke dead words without informing thought.A horror, as of power without a soul,Dark, undefined, and mighty unto ill,Jarred through the earth and through the vault-like air.
And on the sleepers fell a wondrous dream,That dured till sunrise, filling all the cellsRemotest of the throbbing heart and brain.And as I watched them, ever and anonThe quivering limb and half-unclosèd eyeWitnessed of torture scarce endured, and yetEndured; for still the dream had mastery,And held them in a helplessness supine;Till, by degrees, the labouring breath grew calm,Save frequent murmured sighs; and o'er each faceStole radiant sadness, and a hopeful grief;And the convulsive motion passed away.
Upon their faces, reading them, I gazed,—Reading them earnestly, like wondrous book,—When suddenly the vapours of the dreamRose and enveloped me, and through my soulPassed with possession; will fell fast asleep.And through the portals of the spirit-land,Upon whose frontiers time and space grow dumb,Quenched like a cloud that all the roaring windDrives not beyond the mountain top, I went,And entering, beheld them in their dream.Their world inwrapt me for the time as mine,And what befel them there, I saw, and tell.
It was a drizzly morning where I stood.The cloud had sunk, and filled with fold on foldThe chimneyed city; so the smoke rose not,But spread diluted in the cloud, and fellA black precipitate on miry streets,Where dim grey faces vision-like went by,But half-awake, half satisfied with sleep.
Slave engines had begun their ceaseless growlOf labour. Iron bands and huge stone blocksThat held them to their task, strained, shook, untilThe city trembled. Those pale-visaged formsWere hastening on to feed their groaning strengthWith labour to the full.
Look! there they come,Poor amid poverty; she with her gownDrawn over her meek head; he trying much,But fruitless half, to shield her from the rain.They enter the wide gates, amid the jar,And clash, and shudder of the awful forceThat, conquering force, still vibrates on, as ifWith an excess of power, hungry for work.With differing strength to different tasks they part,To be the soul of knowledge unto strength;For man has eked his body out with wheels,And cranks, and belts, and levers, pinions, screws—One body all, pervaded still with lifeFrom man the maker's will. 'Mid keen-eyed men,Thin featured and exact, his part is found;Hers where the dusk air shines with lustrous eyes.
And there they laboured through the murky day,Whose air was livid mist, their only breath;Foul floating dust of swift revolving wheelsAnd feathery spoil of fast contorted threadsMaking a sultry chaos in the sun.Until at length slow swelled the welcome dark,A dull Lethean heaving tide of death,Up from the caves of Night to make an end;And filling every corner of the place,Choked in its waves the clanking of the looms.And Earth put on her sleeping dress, and tookHer children home into its bosom-folds,And nursed them as a mother-ghost might sitWith her neglected darlings in the dark.So with dim satisfaction in their hearts,Though with tired feet and aching head, they went,Parting the clinging fog to find their home.It was a dreary place. Unfinished walls,Far drearier than ruins overspreadWith long-worn sweet forgetfulness, amidstEarth-heaps and bricks, rain-pools and ugliness,Rose up around, banishing further yetThe Earth, with its spring-time, young-mother smile,From children's eyes that had forgot to play.But though the house was dull and wrapt in fog,It yet awoke to life, yea, cheerfulness,When darkness oped a fire-eye in the grate,And the dim candle's smoky flame revealedA room which could not be all desolate,Being a temple, proven by the signsSeen in the ancient place. For here was light;And blazing fire with darkness on its skirts;Bread; and pure water, ready to make clean,Beside a chest of holiday attire;And in the twilight edges of the light,A book scarce seen; and for the wondrous veil,Those human forms, behind which lay concealedThe Holy of Holies, God's own secret place,The lowly human heart wherein He dwells.And by the table-altar they sat downTo eat their Eucharist, God feeding them:Their food was Love, made visible in Form—Incarnate Love in food. For he to whomA common meal can be no Eucharist,Who thanks for food and strength, not for the loveThat made cold water for its blessedness,And wine for gladness' sake, has yet to learnThe heart-delight of inmost thankfulnessFor innermost reception.
Then they satResting with silence, the soul's inward sleep,Which feedeth it with strength; till graduallyThey grew aware of light, that overcameThe light within, and through the dingy blind,Cast from the window-frame, two shadow-gloomsThat made a cross of darkness on the white,Dark messenger of light itself unseen.The woman rose, and half she put asideThe veil that hid the whole of glorious night;And lo! a wind had mowed the earth-sprung fog;And lo! on high the white exultant moonFrom clear blue window curtained all with white,Greeted them, at their shadowy window low,With quiet smile; for two things made her glad:One that she saw the glory of the sun;For while the earth lay all athirst for light,She drank the fountain-waves. The other joy;Sprung from herself: she fought the darkness well,Thinning the great cone-shadow of the earth,Paling its ebon hue with radiant showersUpon its sloping side. The woman said,With hopeful look: "To-morrow will be brightWith sunshine for our holiday—to-morrow—Think! we shall see the green fields in the sun."So with hearts hoping for a simple joy,Yet high withal, being no less than the sun,They laid them down in nightly death that waitsPatiently for the day.
That sun was highWhen they awoke at length. The moon, low down,Had almost vanished, clothed upon with light;And night was swallowed up of day. In haste,Chiding their weariness that leagued with sleep,They, having clothed themselves in clean attire,By the low door, stooping with priestly hearts,Entered God's vision-room, his wonder-world.
One side the street, the windows all were moonsTo light the other that in shadow lay.The path was almost dry; the wind asleep.And down the sunny side a woman cameIn a red cloak that made the whole street glad—Fit clothing, though she was so feeble and old;For when they stopped and asked her how she fared,She said with cheerful words, and smile that owedNone of its sweetness to an ivory lining:"I'm always better in the open air.""Dear heart!" said they, "how freely she will breatheIn the open air of heaven!" She stood in the mornLike a belated autumn-flower in spring,Dazed by the rushing of the new-born lifeUp the earth's winding cavern-stairs to seeThrough window-buds the calling, waking sun.Or as in dreams we meet the ghost of oneBeloved in youth, who walketh with few words,And they are of the past. Yet, joy to her!She too from earthy grave was climbing upUnto the spirit-windows high and far,She the new life for a celestial spring,Answering the light that shineth evermore.
With hopeful sadness thus they passed alongDissolving streets towards the smiles of spring,Of which green visions gleamed and glided by,Across far-narrowing avenues of brick:The ripples only of her laughter floatThrough the low winding caverns of the town;Yet not a stone upon the paven street,But shareth in the impulse of her joy,Heaven's life that thrills anew through the outworn earth;Descending like the angel that did stirBethesda's pool, and made the sleepy wavePulse with quick healing through the withered limb,In joyous pangs. By an unfinished street,Forth came they on a wide and level space;Green fields lay side by side, and hedgerow treesStood here and there as waiting for some good.But no calm river meditated throughThe weary flat to the less level sea;No forest trees on pillared stems and boughsBent in great Gothic arches, bore aloftA cloudy temple-roof of tremulous leaves;No clear line where the kissing lips of skyAnd earth meet undulating, but a hazeThat hides—oh, if it hid wild waves! alas!It hides but fields, it hides but fields and trees!Save eastward, where a few hills, far away,Came forth in the sun, or drew back when the cloudsWent over them, dissolving them in shade.But the life-robe of earth was beautiful,As all most common things are loveliest;A forest of green waving fairy trees,That carpeted the earth for lowly feet,Bending unto their tread, lowliest of allEarth's lowly children born for ministeringUnto the heavenly stranger, stately man;That he, by subtle service from all kinds,From every breeze and every bounding wave,From night-sky cavernous with heaps of storm,And from the hill rejoicing in the sun,Might grow a humble, lowly child of God;Lowly, as knowing his high parentage;Humble, because all beauties wait on him,Like lady-servants ministering for love.And he that hath not rock, and hill, and stream,Must learn to look for other beauty near;To know the face of ocean solitudes,The darkness dashed with glory, and the shadesWind-fretted, and the mingled tints upthrownFrom shallow bed, or raining from the sky.And he that hath not ocean, and dwells low,Not hill-befriended, if his eyes have ceasedTo drink enjoyment from the billowy grass,And from the road-side flower (like one who dwellsWith homely features round him every day,And so takes refuge in the loving eyesWhich are their heaven, the dwelling-place of light),Must straightway lift his eyes unto the heavens,Like God's great palette, where His artist handNever can strike the brush, but beauty wakes;Vast sweepy comet-curves, that net the soulIn pleasure; endless sky-stairs; patient clouds,White till they blush at the sun's goodnight kiss;And filmy pallours, and great mountain crags.But beyond all, absorbing all the rest,Lies the great heaven, the expression of deep space,Foreshortened to a vaulted dome of blue;The Infinite, crowded in a single glance,Where yet the eye descends depth within depth;Like mystery of Truth, clothed in high form,Evasive, spiritual, no limiting,But something that denies an end, and yetCan be beheld by wondering human eyes.There looking up, one well may feel how vainTo search for God in this vast wilderness!For over him would arch void depth for ever;Nor ever would he find a God or Heaven,Though lifting wings were his to soar abroadThrough boundless heights of space; or eyes to diveTo microscopic depths: he would come back,And say,There is no God;and sit and weep;Till in his heart a child's voice woke and cried,Father! my Father!Then the face of GodBreaks forth with eyes, everywhere, suddenlyAnd not a space of blue, nor floating cloud,Nor grassy vale, nor distant purple height,But, trembling with a presence all divine,Says,Here I am, my child.
Gazing awhile,They let the lesson of the sky sink deepInto their hearts; withdrawing then their eyes,They knew the Earth again. And as they went,Oft in the changing heavens, those distant hillsShone clear upon the horizon. Then awokeA strange and unknown longing in their souls,As if for something loved in years gone by,And vanished in its beauty and its loveSo long, that it retained no name or form,And lay on childhood's verge, all but forgot,Wrapt in the enchanted rose-mists of that land:As if amidst those hills were wooded dells,Summer, and gentle winds, and odours free,Deep sleeping waters, gorgeous flowers, and birds,Pure winged throats. But here, all things aroundWere in their spring. The very light that layUpon the grass seemed new-born like the grass,Sprung with it from the earth. The very stonesLooked warm. The brown ploughed earth seemed swelling up,Filled like a sponge with sunbeams, which lay still,Nestling unseen, and broodingly, and warm,In every little nest, corner, or crack,Wherein might hide a blind and sleepy seed,Waiting the touch of penetrative lifeTo wake, and grow, and beautify the earth.The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no lifeExuberant overflowed in buds and leaves,Were clothed in golden splendours, interwovenWith many shadows from the branches bare.And through their tops the west wind rushing went,Calling aloud the sleeping sap within:The thrill passed downwards from the roots in airTo the roots tremulous in the embracing ground.And though no buds with little dots of lightSparkled the darkness of the hedgerow twigs;Softening, expanding in the warm light-bath,Seemed the dry smoky bark.
Thus in the fieldsThey spent their holiday. And when the sunWas near the going down, they turned them homeWith strengthened hearts. For they were filled with light,And with the spring; and, like the bees, went backTo their dark house, laden with blessed sights,With gladsome sounds home to their treasure-cave;Where henceforth sudden gleams of spring would passThorough the four-walled darkness of the room;And sounds of spring-time whisper trembling by,Though stony streets with iron echoed round.And as they crossed a field, they came by chanceUpon a place where once a home had been;Fragments of ruined walls, half-overgrownWith moss, for even stones had their green robe.It had been a small cottage, with a plotOf garden-ground in front, mapped out with walksNow scarce discernible, but that the grassWas thinner, the ground harder to the foot:The place was simply shadowed with an oldAlmost erased human carefulness.Close by the ruined wall, where once had beenThe door dividing it from the great world,Making ithome, a single snowdrop grew.'Twas the sole remnant of a familyOf flowers that in this garden once had dwelt,Vanished with all their hues of glowing life,Save one too white for death.
And as its formArose within the brain, a feeling sprungUp in their souls, new, white, and delicate;A waiting, longing, patient hopefulness,The snowdrop of the heart. The heavenly child,Pale with the earthly cold, hung its meek head,Enduring all, and so victorious;The Summer's earnest in the waking Earth,The spirit's in the heart.
I love thee, flower,With a love almost human, tenderly;The Spring's first child, yea, thine, my hoping heart!Upon thy inner leaves and in thy heart,Enough of green to tell thou know'st the grass;In thy white mind remembering lowly friends;But most I love thee for that little stainOf earth on thy transfigured radiancy,Which thou hast lifted with thee from thy grave,The soiling of thy garments on thy road,Travelling forth into the light and air,The heaven of thy pure rest. Some gentle rainWill surely wash thee white, and send the earthBack to the place of earth; but now it signsThee child of earth, of human birth as we.
With careful hands uprooting it, they boreThe little plant a willing captive home;Willing to enter dark abodes, secureIn its own tale of light. As once of old,Bearing all heaven in words of promising,The Angel of the Annunciation came,It carried all the spring into that house;A pot of mould its only tie to Earth,Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops,Its world henceforth that little, low-ceiled room,Symbol and child of spring, it took its place'Midst all those types, to be a type with them,Of what so many feel, not knowing it;The hidden springtime that is drawing nigh.And henceforth, when the shadow of the crossWill enter, clothed in moonlight, still and dark,The flower will nestle at its foot till day,Pale, drooping, heart-content.
To rest they went.And all night long the snowdrop glimmered whiteAmid the dark, unconscious and unseen.
Before the sun had crowned his eastern hillWith its world-diadem, they woke.
I lookedOut of the windows of the inner dream,And saw the edge of the sun's glory riseEastward behind the hills, the lake-cup's rim.And as it came, it sucked up in itself,As deeds drink words, or daylight candle-flame,That other sun rising to light the dream.They lay awake and thoughtful, comfortedWith yesterday which nested in their hearts,Yet haunted with the sound of grinding wheels.
And as they lay and looked into the room,It wavered, changed, dissolved beneath the sun,Which mingled both the mornings in their eyes,Till the true conquered, and the unreal passed.No walls, but woods bathed in a level sun;No ceiling, but the vestal sky of morn;No bed, but flowers floating 'mid floating leavesOn water which grew audible as they stirredAnd lifted up their heads. And a low windThat flowed from out the west, washed from their eyeThe last films of the dream. And they sat up,Silent for one long cool delicious breath,Gazing upon each other lost and found,With a dumb ecstasy, new, undefined.Followed a long embrace, and then the oarsBroke up their prison-bands.
And through the woodsThey slowly went, beneath a firmamentOf boughs, and clouded leaves, filmy and paleIn the sunshine, but shadowy on the grass.And roving odours met them on their way,Sun-quickened odours, which the fog had slain.And their green sky had many a blossom-moon,And constellations thick with starry flowers.And deep and still were all the woods, exceptFor the Memnonian, glory-stricken birds;And golden beetles 'mid the shadowy roots,Green goblins of the grass, and mining mice;And on the leaves the fairy butterflies,Or doubting in the air, scarlet and blue.The divine depth of summer clasped the Earth.
But 'twixt their hearts and summer's perfectnessCame a dividing thought that seemed to say:"Ye wear strange looks." Did summer speak, or they?They said within: "We know that ye are fair,Bright flowers; but ye shine far away, as inA land of other thoughts. Alas! alas!
"Where shall we find the snowdrop-bell half-blown?What shall we do? we feel the throbbing springBursting in new and unexpressive thoughts;Our hearts are swelling like a tied-up bud,And summer crushes them with too much light.Action is bubbling up within our souls;The woods oppress us more than stony streets;That was the life indeed; this is the dream;Summer is too complete for growing hearts;They need a broken season, and a landWith shadows pointing ever far away;Where incompleteness rouses longing thoughtsWith spires abrupt, and broken spheres, and circlesCut that they may be widened evermore:Through shattered cloudy roof, looks in the sky,A discord from a loftier harmony;And tempests waken peace within our thoughts,Driving them inward to the inmost rest.Come, my beloved, we will haste and goTo those pale faces of our fellow men;Our loving hearts, burning with summer-fire,Will cast a glow upon their pallidness;Our hands will help them, far as servants may;Hands are apostles still to saviour-hearts.So we may share their blessedness with them;So may the snowdrop time be likewise ours;And Earth smile tearfully the spirit smileWherewith she smiled upon our holiday,As a sweet child may laugh with weeping eyes.If ever we return, these glorious flowersMay all be snowdrops of a higher spring."Their eyes one moment met, and then they knewThat they did mean the same thing in their hearts.So with no farther words they turned and wentBack to the boat, and so across the mere.
I wake from out my dream, and know my room,My darling books, the cherub forms above;I know 'tis springtime in the world without;I feel it springtime in my world within;I know that bending o'er an early flower,Crocus, or primrose, or anemone,The heart that striveth for a higher life,And hath not yet been conquered, findeth thereA beauty deep, unshared by any rose,A human loveliness about the flower;That a heath-bell upon a lonely wasteHath more than scarlet splendour on thick leaves;That a blue opening 'midst rain-bosomed cloudsIs more than Paphian sun-set harmonies;That higher beauty dwells on earth, becauseMan seeks a higher home than Paradise;And, having lost, is roused thereby to fillA deeper need than could be filled by allThe lost ten times restored; and so he lovesThe snowdrop more than the magnolia;Spring-hope is more to him than summer-joy;Dark towns than Eden-groves with rivers four.