How have I toiled, how have I set my faceFair to the swords! No man could say I quailed;Ne'er did I falter; I dare not to have failed,I dare not to have dropped from out the race.
Good was the fight—good, till a piteous dreamCrept from some direful covert of despair;Showed me your look, that look so true and fair,Distant and bleak; for me no more to gleam.
Then was I driven back upon my soul,Then came dark moments; lady, then I drewForth from its place the round unfathomed bowl
Of sorrow, and from it I quaffed to you;Speaking as men speak who have lostTheir hearts' last prize—and dare not count the cost.
But you are here unchanged. You say not soIn words, but when you placed your hands in mine;But when I saw the same old glory shineWithin your eyes, I read it; and I know.
And when those hands ran up along my arm,And rested on my shoulder for a space,A sacred inquisition in your face,To read my heart, how could I doubt that charm,
That truth ineffable!—I set my soulIn hazard to a farthing, that you keptThe faith, with pride unspeakable, the whole
Course of those years in which communion slept.Your soul flamed in your look; you read; I knewHow little worth was I, how heavenly you.
I read your truth. You read—What did you read?Did you read all, and, reading all, forgive?How I—O little dwarf of conscience sieveMy soul; bare all before her bare indeed!
And, looking on the remnant and the waste,Can you absolve me,—me, the doubter, oneWho challenged what God spent His genius on,His genius and His pride; so fair, so chaste?
I am ashamed. . . . And when I told my dreams,Shaken and humble,—"Dear, there was no cause,"Your words; proud, sorrowful, as it beseems
Such as thou art. There never was a causeWhy you should honour me. Ashamed am I.And you forgive me, bless me, for reply.
You bless me, then you turn away your head—"Never again, dear. I have blessed you so,My lips upon your lips; between must flowThe river—Oh the river!" Thus you said.
The river—Oh the river, and the sun;Stream that we may not cross, sun that is joy:Flow as thou must; shine on in full employ—Shine through her eyes thou; let the river run.
O lady, to your liegeman speak. You say:"Dream no more dreams; yourself be as am I"Your hands clasped to your face, so shutting out the day.
An instant, then to me, your low good-bye—Good-night, good-bye; and then the social reign,The lights, the songs, the flowers—and the pain.
"Oh, hush!" you said; "oh, hush!" The twilight hungBetween us and the world; but in your face,Flooding with warm inner light, the sovereign graceOf one who rests the brooding trees among—
Of one who steps down from a lofty throne,Seeking that peace the sceptre cannot call;And leaving courtier, page, and seneschal,Goes down the lane of sycamores alone;
And, going, listens to the notes that swellFrom golden throats—stories of ardent days,And lovers in fair vales; and homing bell:
And the sweet theme unbearable, she praysThe song-bird cease! So, on the tale I dare,Your "hush!" your wistful "hush!" broke like prayer.
"Never," you said, "never this side the grave,And what shall come hereafter, who may know?Whether we e'en shall guess the way we go,Passing beneath Death's mystic architrave
Silence or song, dumb sleep or cheerful hours?"O lady, you have questioned, answer too.You—you to die—silence and gloom for you:Dead song, dead lights, dead graces, and dead flowers?
It is not so: the foolish trivial end,The inconsequent paltry Nothing—gone—gone all;The genius of the ageless Something spend
Itself within this little earthly wall:The commonplace conception, that we reapReward of drudge and ploughman—idle sleep!
You shall live on triumphant, you shall takeYour place among the peerless, fearless ones;And those who loved you here shall tell their sonsTo honour every woman for your sake.
And those your Peers shall say, "Others are pure,Others are noble, others too have vowed,And for a vow have suffered; but she bowedHer own soul and another's to endure.
She smote the being more to her than all,—Her own soul and the world,—a truth to hold,Faith with the dead; and hung a heavy pall
'Tween her and love and life. The world is old,It hath sent here none queenlier. Of the few,The royal few is she, martyred and true."
Upon the rack of this tough world I hear,As when Cordelia's glories all dissever-"Never—never—never—never—never,—"That wild moan of the dispossessed Lear.
O world, vex not this ghost, yea, let it pass,The Spirit of these songs. The fool hath mocked,The fool our woe upon us hath unlockedFrom where the soul holds to our lips the glass,
To see what breath of life. O fool, poor fool,Well, we have laughed together, you and I.O fond insulter, in the healing pool
Of your deep poignant raillery I lie.Let us be grand again, my fool. The throneIs gone; but see, the coronation stone!
Know you where I, my royal fool, was crowned?A rock within the great Egean? WhereA strong flood hurrieth on Finistere?Where at the Pole our valiant men were drowned?
Where the soft creamy wash of Indian seasSpreads palmward? Where the sunset glides to dawn,No night between? Where all the tides are drawnTo greet their Sun and bathe their Idol's knees?
Where was I crowned? Dear fool, upon a stoneThat standeth where Earth's arches make but one,Where all the banners of her soul were flown,
And trumpeted the legions of the sun.The stone is left: 'tis here against the doorOf throne and kingdom. . . . Pray you, mock no more.
A time will come when we again shall rail—Not yet, not yet. The flood comes on apace,That deep dividing river, and her faceGrows dimmer as it widens—pale, so pale.
Have we not railed and laughed these many days,Mummers before the lights? Dear fool, your handUpon your lips—Oh let us once be grand,Grand as we were when treading royal ways.
Lo, there she moves beyond the river. Gone—Gone is the sun-lo, starlight in her eyes.See, how she standeth silent and alone—
Oh, hush! let us not vex her with our cries.Proud as of old, unto my throne I go. . . .Cordelia's gone…… Hush, draw the curtain—so.
When you and I have played the little hour,Have seen the tall subaltern Life to DeathYield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,The first long breath of freedom; when the flower
Of Recompense has fluttered to our feet,As to an actor's; and the curtain down,We turn to face each other all alone—Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,
Alone, and absolute, and free: oh, then,Oh, then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?Clasped hands, pressed lips, and so clasped hands again;
No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moanOf joy; and then our infinite Alone.