And so my moods, thus moving on, at lastFound special pleasure in a friendship form’dUpon a day of tramping through the Alps.Her name was Grace, and gracious was her mien;And graces everywhere attended herThrough jars and joys of journeys afterward.So splendid never as my Edith; neverSo striking, so alluring, or so shunn’d;Her brilliance would not dim a rival’s eyes,Nor beauty shade another’s face with frowns.One saw in her a modest, model maid,A woman loved by women; and with menA presence, mellow-lighting like the moon;Yet could she shed no light when came my storms,As now they came full often. Then it seem’dHer very mildness made her moods too dullTo penetrate the clouds that cover’d mine.
And so my moods, thus moving on, at lastFound special pleasure in a friendship form’dUpon a day of tramping through the Alps.Her name was Grace, and gracious was her mien;And graces everywhere attended herThrough jars and joys of journeys afterward.So splendid never as my Edith; neverSo striking, so alluring, or so shunn’d;Her brilliance would not dim a rival’s eyes,Nor beauty shade another’s face with frowns.One saw in her a modest, model maid,A woman loved by women; and with menA presence, mellow-lighting like the moon;Yet could she shed no light when came my storms,As now they came full often. Then it seem’dHer very mildness made her moods too dullTo penetrate the clouds that cover’d mine.
And so my moods, thus moving on, at lastFound special pleasure in a friendship form’dUpon a day of tramping through the Alps.Her name was Grace, and gracious was her mien;And graces everywhere attended herThrough jars and joys of journeys afterward.So splendid never as my Edith; neverSo striking, so alluring, or so shunn’d;Her brilliance would not dim a rival’s eyes,Nor beauty shade another’s face with frowns.One saw in her a modest, model maid,A woman loved by women; and with menA presence, mellow-lighting like the moon;Yet could she shed no light when came my storms,As now they came full often. Then it seem’dHer very mildness made her moods too dullTo penetrate the clouds that cover’d mine.
And so my moods, thus moving on, at last
Found special pleasure in a friendship form’d
Upon a day of tramping through the Alps.
Her name was Grace, and gracious was her mien;
And graces everywhere attended her
Through jars and joys of journeys afterward.
So splendid never as my Edith; never
So striking, so alluring, or so shunn’d;
Her brilliance would not dim a rival’s eyes,
Nor beauty shade another’s face with frowns.
One saw in her a modest, model maid,
A woman loved by women; and with men
A presence, mellow-lighting like the moon;
Yet could she shed no light when came my storms,
As now they came full often. Then it seem’d
Her very mildness made her moods too dull
To penetrate the clouds that cover’d mine.
“It must be lonesome here for one like you,A stranger-land, indeed, here,” would she sigh.“Why could we not, church people, day by day,Have converse here, and thus live more at one?”When hearts hold secrets, even love that comes,And comes in crowds, will bring the prying soulFull drive to spring them open. How I shrankTo meet with those with whom my soul could findNo source of sympathy beneath the soundProduced when tongue and teeth and lips combineTo mouth one shibboleth! A fate like thisForetoken’d only, made me well nigh faintAs feels a soldier, falling at his post,With heart shell’d out and emptied of the soul.I could but find excuses, partly realAnd partly feign’d, the fringe of ready whims.
“It must be lonesome here for one like you,A stranger-land, indeed, here,” would she sigh.“Why could we not, church people, day by day,Have converse here, and thus live more at one?”When hearts hold secrets, even love that comes,And comes in crowds, will bring the prying soulFull drive to spring them open. How I shrankTo meet with those with whom my soul could findNo source of sympathy beneath the soundProduced when tongue and teeth and lips combineTo mouth one shibboleth! A fate like thisForetoken’d only, made me well nigh faintAs feels a soldier, falling at his post,With heart shell’d out and emptied of the soul.I could but find excuses, partly realAnd partly feign’d, the fringe of ready whims.
“It must be lonesome here for one like you,A stranger-land, indeed, here,” would she sigh.“Why could we not, church people, day by day,Have converse here, and thus live more at one?”
“It must be lonesome here for one like you,
A stranger-land, indeed, here,” would she sigh.
“Why could we not, church people, day by day,
Have converse here, and thus live more at one?”
When hearts hold secrets, even love that comes,And comes in crowds, will bring the prying soulFull drive to spring them open. How I shrankTo meet with those with whom my soul could findNo source of sympathy beneath the soundProduced when tongue and teeth and lips combineTo mouth one shibboleth! A fate like thisForetoken’d only, made me well nigh faintAs feels a soldier, falling at his post,With heart shell’d out and emptied of the soul.I could but find excuses, partly realAnd partly feign’d, the fringe of ready whims.
When hearts hold secrets, even love that comes,
And comes in crowds, will bring the prying soul
Full drive to spring them open. How I shrank
To meet with those with whom my soul could find
No source of sympathy beneath the sound
Produced when tongue and teeth and lips combine
To mouth one shibboleth! A fate like this
Foretoken’d only, made me well nigh faint
As feels a soldier, falling at his post,
With heart shell’d out and emptied of the soul.
I could but find excuses, partly real
And partly feign’d, the fringe of ready whims.
She startled echoes from my inmost soulBy words that named my “life-work.”“Yes,” I said;“We all should sympathize. All own one lord;All wait beside one shore; all watch one tide.—So too do snipes and snails! and so do soulsThat yet shall rule in heaven ten towns and one.Souls differ, Grace; and John from James, as wellAs both from Judas.—Judas lingers too.”“So many,” sigh’d she, “sell their Christ, and thinkSouls rich, that but receive suggestions richFrom art or——”Had regard for Edith, now,Made me, at last, a champion of art?—“However or wherever plied,” I said,“Real power for good owns good enough to claimSome courtesy from Christian charity.If I but fling a stone in yonder pond,Wherever it may fall, it stirs the whole.So if I throw out thought for mind or heart,Through art or through religion, each may moveThe whole man thus, and move him for his good.”“Ah, but,” she breathed, with slight dogmatic stress,“A simple woman, I would move his heart,Through love, as Christ too did; not so?”“Do this,”I said, “you do but what is woman’s right;And none about you will dispute the right.But ask me not to limit thus the Christ.How dare I?—if our churches teach the truth,If He incarnated the sum of lifeAnd spirit of all good,—his holinessHis wholeness, and His perfectness, the proofOf what He was? Nor dare I limit thoseWho follow Him.—Why may they not live His,Not aiming here nor there, but everywhereTo make the most of all God meant them for.And things there are that art can do for manTo make him manlier. Not the senseless rockIs all it fashions into forms of sense;But senseless manhood, natures hard and harsh,Great classes crush’d, and races driven to crawlTill all their souls are stain’d with smut and soil,—More human seem these when the hands of artHave grasp’d their better traits and hold them forth.And men who see these better traits, and seeThe tender touch of art that holds them forth,Behold a beauty never else beheld;And all their hearts beat more humanely whileThey heed the plea of these humanities.And so, I think, although the wilderness,At times, a John in camel’s hair may need,There open too, in ways of life less wild,More ways, where love may plead in guise more soft.In short, as long as one may choose his course,’Tis best we do what each can do the best.”
She startled echoes from my inmost soulBy words that named my “life-work.”“Yes,” I said;“We all should sympathize. All own one lord;All wait beside one shore; all watch one tide.—So too do snipes and snails! and so do soulsThat yet shall rule in heaven ten towns and one.Souls differ, Grace; and John from James, as wellAs both from Judas.—Judas lingers too.”“So many,” sigh’d she, “sell their Christ, and thinkSouls rich, that but receive suggestions richFrom art or——”Had regard for Edith, now,Made me, at last, a champion of art?—“However or wherever plied,” I said,“Real power for good owns good enough to claimSome courtesy from Christian charity.If I but fling a stone in yonder pond,Wherever it may fall, it stirs the whole.So if I throw out thought for mind or heart,Through art or through religion, each may moveThe whole man thus, and move him for his good.”“Ah, but,” she breathed, with slight dogmatic stress,“A simple woman, I would move his heart,Through love, as Christ too did; not so?”“Do this,”I said, “you do but what is woman’s right;And none about you will dispute the right.But ask me not to limit thus the Christ.How dare I?—if our churches teach the truth,If He incarnated the sum of lifeAnd spirit of all good,—his holinessHis wholeness, and His perfectness, the proofOf what He was? Nor dare I limit thoseWho follow Him.—Why may they not live His,Not aiming here nor there, but everywhereTo make the most of all God meant them for.And things there are that art can do for manTo make him manlier. Not the senseless rockIs all it fashions into forms of sense;But senseless manhood, natures hard and harsh,Great classes crush’d, and races driven to crawlTill all their souls are stain’d with smut and soil,—More human seem these when the hands of artHave grasp’d their better traits and hold them forth.And men who see these better traits, and seeThe tender touch of art that holds them forth,Behold a beauty never else beheld;And all their hearts beat more humanely whileThey heed the plea of these humanities.And so, I think, although the wilderness,At times, a John in camel’s hair may need,There open too, in ways of life less wild,More ways, where love may plead in guise more soft.In short, as long as one may choose his course,’Tis best we do what each can do the best.”
She startled echoes from my inmost soulBy words that named my “life-work.”“Yes,” I said;“We all should sympathize. All own one lord;All wait beside one shore; all watch one tide.—So too do snipes and snails! and so do soulsThat yet shall rule in heaven ten towns and one.Souls differ, Grace; and John from James, as wellAs both from Judas.—Judas lingers too.”
She startled echoes from my inmost soul
By words that named my “life-work.”
“Yes,” I said;
“We all should sympathize. All own one lord;
All wait beside one shore; all watch one tide.—
So too do snipes and snails! and so do souls
That yet shall rule in heaven ten towns and one.
Souls differ, Grace; and John from James, as well
As both from Judas.—Judas lingers too.”
“So many,” sigh’d she, “sell their Christ, and thinkSouls rich, that but receive suggestions richFrom art or——”Had regard for Edith, now,Made me, at last, a champion of art?—“However or wherever plied,” I said,“Real power for good owns good enough to claimSome courtesy from Christian charity.If I but fling a stone in yonder pond,Wherever it may fall, it stirs the whole.So if I throw out thought for mind or heart,Through art or through religion, each may moveThe whole man thus, and move him for his good.”
“So many,” sigh’d she, “sell their Christ, and think
Souls rich, that but receive suggestions rich
From art or——”
Had regard for Edith, now,
Made me, at last, a champion of art?—
“However or wherever plied,” I said,
“Real power for good owns good enough to claim
Some courtesy from Christian charity.
If I but fling a stone in yonder pond,
Wherever it may fall, it stirs the whole.
So if I throw out thought for mind or heart,
Through art or through religion, each may move
The whole man thus, and move him for his good.”
“Ah, but,” she breathed, with slight dogmatic stress,“A simple woman, I would move his heart,Through love, as Christ too did; not so?”“Do this,”I said, “you do but what is woman’s right;And none about you will dispute the right.But ask me not to limit thus the Christ.How dare I?—if our churches teach the truth,If He incarnated the sum of lifeAnd spirit of all good,—his holinessHis wholeness, and His perfectness, the proofOf what He was? Nor dare I limit thoseWho follow Him.—Why may they not live His,Not aiming here nor there, but everywhereTo make the most of all God meant them for.And things there are that art can do for manTo make him manlier. Not the senseless rockIs all it fashions into forms of sense;But senseless manhood, natures hard and harsh,Great classes crush’d, and races driven to crawlTill all their souls are stain’d with smut and soil,—More human seem these when the hands of artHave grasp’d their better traits and hold them forth.And men who see these better traits, and seeThe tender touch of art that holds them forth,Behold a beauty never else beheld;And all their hearts beat more humanely whileThey heed the plea of these humanities.And so, I think, although the wilderness,At times, a John in camel’s hair may need,There open too, in ways of life less wild,More ways, where love may plead in guise more soft.In short, as long as one may choose his course,’Tis best we do what each can do the best.”
“Ah, but,” she breathed, with slight dogmatic stress,
“A simple woman, I would move his heart,
Through love, as Christ too did; not so?”
“Do this,”
I said, “you do but what is woman’s right;
And none about you will dispute the right.
But ask me not to limit thus the Christ.
How dare I?—if our churches teach the truth,
If He incarnated the sum of life
And spirit of all good,—his holiness
His wholeness, and His perfectness, the proof
Of what He was? Nor dare I limit those
Who follow Him.—Why may they not live His,
Not aiming here nor there, but everywhere
To make the most of all God meant them for.
And things there are that art can do for man
To make him manlier. Not the senseless rock
Is all it fashions into forms of sense;
But senseless manhood, natures hard and harsh,
Great classes crush’d, and races driven to crawl
Till all their souls are stain’d with smut and soil,—
More human seem these when the hands of art
Have grasp’d their better traits and hold them forth.
And men who see these better traits, and see
The tender touch of art that holds them forth,
Behold a beauty never else beheld;
And all their hearts beat more humanely while
They heed the plea of these humanities.
And so, I think, although the wilderness,
At times, a John in camel’s hair may need,
There open too, in ways of life less wild,
More ways, where love may plead in guise more soft.
In short, as long as one may choose his course,
’Tis best we do what each can do the best.”
“Oh, you perplexing!” cried she; “not for me,Foryourbrain! Tell, pray, where it rummaged last,To catch these cobwebs?—I have seen them, yes;These halls are full of them, and libraries,Old musty things!—But, Norman, soberly,This German text is bad for eyesight, yes;And half I doubt—Come, tell me, tell the truth,Doyousee clearly aught that you can do?”“Why so?” I ask’d; “do you?”“Why not,” she said,All serious now, “do what shall yield life’s dayThe most of glory at its evening hour?—The sun sets brightest after days of storm.”“What, always?” ask’d I; “are you sure of this?I know true faith that mainly aims to ridOur present life from fears of future ill.To it what need of storms, if sunshine hereMay best prepare one for the future calm?That future is eternal; even soHow can we gauge th’ eternal save by time?How can we judge of joy that will not end,Save by our own, if ours would only last?What is it to be blessèd, if not this,—To find our process of becoming blestMade permanent, our young weak wings of faithFull fledged and flying by habit?—and if so,Heaven’s habits are form’d here. Suppose a youth,That, by and by, he may enjoy much wealth,Act miserly,—what gains he by and by?—Much wealth, perhaps; but, holding with it, too,The miser’s moods, establish’d now as traits,Incorporated modes of all his life,He with them holds what most unfits the soulTo use wealth, or enjoy it. So on earthWhen avarice, aim’d for heaven, makes man a monk,What can he gain thereby, save monkish moods,Become establish’d in him now as traits.Incorporated modes of all his life?But, holding these, the soul must with them holdWhat most unfits it to enjoy—not here,In any sphere at all,—a life of love.”
“Oh, you perplexing!” cried she; “not for me,Foryourbrain! Tell, pray, where it rummaged last,To catch these cobwebs?—I have seen them, yes;These halls are full of them, and libraries,Old musty things!—But, Norman, soberly,This German text is bad for eyesight, yes;And half I doubt—Come, tell me, tell the truth,Doyousee clearly aught that you can do?”“Why so?” I ask’d; “do you?”“Why not,” she said,All serious now, “do what shall yield life’s dayThe most of glory at its evening hour?—The sun sets brightest after days of storm.”“What, always?” ask’d I; “are you sure of this?I know true faith that mainly aims to ridOur present life from fears of future ill.To it what need of storms, if sunshine hereMay best prepare one for the future calm?That future is eternal; even soHow can we gauge th’ eternal save by time?How can we judge of joy that will not end,Save by our own, if ours would only last?What is it to be blessèd, if not this,—To find our process of becoming blestMade permanent, our young weak wings of faithFull fledged and flying by habit?—and if so,Heaven’s habits are form’d here. Suppose a youth,That, by and by, he may enjoy much wealth,Act miserly,—what gains he by and by?—Much wealth, perhaps; but, holding with it, too,The miser’s moods, establish’d now as traits,Incorporated modes of all his life,He with them holds what most unfits the soulTo use wealth, or enjoy it. So on earthWhen avarice, aim’d for heaven, makes man a monk,What can he gain thereby, save monkish moods,Become establish’d in him now as traits.Incorporated modes of all his life?But, holding these, the soul must with them holdWhat most unfits it to enjoy—not here,In any sphere at all,—a life of love.”
“Oh, you perplexing!” cried she; “not for me,Foryourbrain! Tell, pray, where it rummaged last,To catch these cobwebs?—I have seen them, yes;These halls are full of them, and libraries,Old musty things!—But, Norman, soberly,This German text is bad for eyesight, yes;And half I doubt—Come, tell me, tell the truth,Doyousee clearly aught that you can do?”“Why so?” I ask’d; “do you?”“Why not,” she said,All serious now, “do what shall yield life’s dayThe most of glory at its evening hour?—The sun sets brightest after days of storm.”
“Oh, you perplexing!” cried she; “not for me,
Foryourbrain! Tell, pray, where it rummaged last,
To catch these cobwebs?—I have seen them, yes;
These halls are full of them, and libraries,
Old musty things!—But, Norman, soberly,
This German text is bad for eyesight, yes;
And half I doubt—Come, tell me, tell the truth,
Doyousee clearly aught that you can do?”
“Why so?” I ask’d; “do you?”
“Why not,” she said,
All serious now, “do what shall yield life’s day
The most of glory at its evening hour?—
The sun sets brightest after days of storm.”
“What, always?” ask’d I; “are you sure of this?I know true faith that mainly aims to ridOur present life from fears of future ill.To it what need of storms, if sunshine hereMay best prepare one for the future calm?That future is eternal; even soHow can we gauge th’ eternal save by time?How can we judge of joy that will not end,Save by our own, if ours would only last?What is it to be blessèd, if not this,—To find our process of becoming blestMade permanent, our young weak wings of faithFull fledged and flying by habit?—and if so,Heaven’s habits are form’d here. Suppose a youth,That, by and by, he may enjoy much wealth,Act miserly,—what gains he by and by?—Much wealth, perhaps; but, holding with it, too,The miser’s moods, establish’d now as traits,Incorporated modes of all his life,He with them holds what most unfits the soulTo use wealth, or enjoy it. So on earthWhen avarice, aim’d for heaven, makes man a monk,What can he gain thereby, save monkish moods,Become establish’d in him now as traits.Incorporated modes of all his life?But, holding these, the soul must with them holdWhat most unfits it to enjoy—not here,In any sphere at all,—a life of love.”
“What, always?” ask’d I; “are you sure of this?
I know true faith that mainly aims to rid
Our present life from fears of future ill.
To it what need of storms, if sunshine here
May best prepare one for the future calm?
That future is eternal; even so
How can we gauge th’ eternal save by time?
How can we judge of joy that will not end,
Save by our own, if ours would only last?
What is it to be blessèd, if not this,—
To find our process of becoming blest
Made permanent, our young weak wings of faith
Full fledged and flying by habit?—and if so,
Heaven’s habits are form’d here. Suppose a youth,
That, by and by, he may enjoy much wealth,
Act miserly,—what gains he by and by?—
Much wealth, perhaps; but, holding with it, too,
The miser’s moods, establish’d now as traits,
Incorporated modes of all his life,
He with them holds what most unfits the soul
To use wealth, or enjoy it. So on earth
When avarice, aim’d for heaven, makes man a monk,
What can he gain thereby, save monkish moods,
Become establish’d in him now as traits.
Incorporated modes of all his life?
But, holding these, the soul must with them hold
What most unfits it to enjoy—not here,
In any sphere at all,—a life of love.”
“You surely would not mean,” she ask’d and paused,“That you could throw aside your hopes? your vows?Your life-work?—seek enjoyment?”“Ah,” said I,“Enjoyment is the man’s most heartfelt praiseTo Him that fram’d his being. What should I,A child of God, do here but live God’s life?—Which is not now, nor then, but evermore.My soul must thrive the best, as best I makeMy now, eternal; my eternal, now.So when a storm comes, let me bar it out;And, braced against the present ill, grow strong;And when the sunshine, let me open wideTo that which makes all nature grow more sweet.Thus, realizing in my earthly stateThe aim of heaven, why do I praise Him lessWhose life is that of heaven, than those who wearThe guises of that slattern of the soul,Asceticism, shuffling toward far good,Slipshod and snivelling?”—“Now, that goes too far!”Cried Grace. “Do I do this?—Ah, but I knowA man so moody!—Own it. Were I you,I just would set to work. To work off whims,The best way, say they, is to work them out;One hand at work is worth ten heads that shirk.”“You find me moody!” sigh’d I; “and complain;Deem moods not meet. Oh, no they prove we feel!—Nor pious they: they prove we think!”
“You surely would not mean,” she ask’d and paused,“That you could throw aside your hopes? your vows?Your life-work?—seek enjoyment?”“Ah,” said I,“Enjoyment is the man’s most heartfelt praiseTo Him that fram’d his being. What should I,A child of God, do here but live God’s life?—Which is not now, nor then, but evermore.My soul must thrive the best, as best I makeMy now, eternal; my eternal, now.So when a storm comes, let me bar it out;And, braced against the present ill, grow strong;And when the sunshine, let me open wideTo that which makes all nature grow more sweet.Thus, realizing in my earthly stateThe aim of heaven, why do I praise Him lessWhose life is that of heaven, than those who wearThe guises of that slattern of the soul,Asceticism, shuffling toward far good,Slipshod and snivelling?”—“Now, that goes too far!”Cried Grace. “Do I do this?—Ah, but I knowA man so moody!—Own it. Were I you,I just would set to work. To work off whims,The best way, say they, is to work them out;One hand at work is worth ten heads that shirk.”“You find me moody!” sigh’d I; “and complain;Deem moods not meet. Oh, no they prove we feel!—Nor pious they: they prove we think!”
“You surely would not mean,” she ask’d and paused,“That you could throw aside your hopes? your vows?Your life-work?—seek enjoyment?”“Ah,” said I,“Enjoyment is the man’s most heartfelt praiseTo Him that fram’d his being. What should I,A child of God, do here but live God’s life?—Which is not now, nor then, but evermore.My soul must thrive the best, as best I makeMy now, eternal; my eternal, now.So when a storm comes, let me bar it out;And, braced against the present ill, grow strong;And when the sunshine, let me open wideTo that which makes all nature grow more sweet.Thus, realizing in my earthly stateThe aim of heaven, why do I praise Him lessWhose life is that of heaven, than those who wearThe guises of that slattern of the soul,Asceticism, shuffling toward far good,Slipshod and snivelling?”—“Now, that goes too far!”Cried Grace. “Do I do this?—Ah, but I knowA man so moody!—Own it. Were I you,I just would set to work. To work off whims,The best way, say they, is to work them out;One hand at work is worth ten heads that shirk.”
“You surely would not mean,” she ask’d and paused,
“That you could throw aside your hopes? your vows?
Your life-work?—seek enjoyment?”
“Ah,” said I,
“Enjoyment is the man’s most heartfelt praise
To Him that fram’d his being. What should I,
A child of God, do here but live God’s life?—
Which is not now, nor then, but evermore.
My soul must thrive the best, as best I make
My now, eternal; my eternal, now.
So when a storm comes, let me bar it out;
And, braced against the present ill, grow strong;
And when the sunshine, let me open wide
To that which makes all nature grow more sweet.
Thus, realizing in my earthly state
The aim of heaven, why do I praise Him less
Whose life is that of heaven, than those who wear
The guises of that slattern of the soul,
Asceticism, shuffling toward far good,
Slipshod and snivelling?”—
“Now, that goes too far!”
Cried Grace. “Do I do this?—Ah, but I know
A man so moody!—Own it. Were I you,
I just would set to work. To work off whims,
The best way, say they, is to work them out;
One hand at work is worth ten heads that shirk.”
“You find me moody!” sigh’d I; “and complain;Deem moods not meet. Oh, no they prove we feel!—Nor pious they: they prove we think!”
“You find me moody!” sigh’d I; “and complain;
Deem moods not meet. Oh, no they prove we feel!—
Nor pious they: they prove we think!”
And yet,I could but blame myself; so fain to drawThis gentler soul from her still streams of lifeToward waves thus fiercely dash’d about my own!You know, though, how it is: our thought, like light,Opposed, will vaunt itself; and brightest play,Glanced off from things it does not penetrate.So, more to shock her than for sympathy,My thought play’d round the surface of her life:It had been shaped so—to so smooth a thing—I burn’d to warp it of complacency.Oft, though unconscious of the least mistruth,I feign’d a fall in fancied depths of ill,And mock’d that I might hear her call me thence;And learn’d therein to envy some the rake.For what a charm it were to hear—not so?That is, if one were vicious, through and through—Such pleas for love from lips that aye were pure?The very depth of one’s unworthinessWould whet such relish for a thing so strange!
And yet,I could but blame myself; so fain to drawThis gentler soul from her still streams of lifeToward waves thus fiercely dash’d about my own!You know, though, how it is: our thought, like light,Opposed, will vaunt itself; and brightest play,Glanced off from things it does not penetrate.So, more to shock her than for sympathy,My thought play’d round the surface of her life:It had been shaped so—to so smooth a thing—I burn’d to warp it of complacency.Oft, though unconscious of the least mistruth,I feign’d a fall in fancied depths of ill,And mock’d that I might hear her call me thence;And learn’d therein to envy some the rake.For what a charm it were to hear—not so?That is, if one were vicious, through and through—Such pleas for love from lips that aye were pure?The very depth of one’s unworthinessWould whet such relish for a thing so strange!
And yet,I could but blame myself; so fain to drawThis gentler soul from her still streams of lifeToward waves thus fiercely dash’d about my own!You know, though, how it is: our thought, like light,Opposed, will vaunt itself; and brightest play,Glanced off from things it does not penetrate.So, more to shock her than for sympathy,My thought play’d round the surface of her life:It had been shaped so—to so smooth a thing—I burn’d to warp it of complacency.Oft, though unconscious of the least mistruth,I feign’d a fall in fancied depths of ill,And mock’d that I might hear her call me thence;And learn’d therein to envy some the rake.For what a charm it were to hear—not so?That is, if one were vicious, through and through—Such pleas for love from lips that aye were pure?The very depth of one’s unworthinessWould whet such relish for a thing so strange!
And yet,
I could but blame myself; so fain to draw
This gentler soul from her still streams of life
Toward waves thus fiercely dash’d about my own!
You know, though, how it is: our thought, like light,
Opposed, will vaunt itself; and brightest play,
Glanced off from things it does not penetrate.
So, more to shock her than for sympathy,
My thought play’d round the surface of her life:
It had been shaped so—to so smooth a thing—
I burn’d to warp it of complacency.
Oft, though unconscious of the least mistruth,
I feign’d a fall in fancied depths of ill,
And mock’d that I might hear her call me thence;
And learn’d therein to envy some the rake.
For what a charm it were to hear—not so?
That is, if one were vicious, through and through—
Such pleas for love from lips that aye were pure?
The very depth of one’s unworthiness
Would whet such relish for a thing so strange!
But weeks and months went by, in which she fill’dA certain void in life; and, every eve,We parted for the night made better friends.Once, ending thus, the pleasures of the day,We chanced upon a path where, sauntering too,Lo, Elbert enter’d and encounter’d us.At first scarce friendly, after divers tests,And in the new light of my life with her,His older love return’d with oldest warmth:“To think so thin a fancy,” he exclaim’d,“As last I found you folded in, should screenOur genuine hearts, a moment, each from each!”
But weeks and months went by, in which she fill’dA certain void in life; and, every eve,We parted for the night made better friends.Once, ending thus, the pleasures of the day,We chanced upon a path where, sauntering too,Lo, Elbert enter’d and encounter’d us.At first scarce friendly, after divers tests,And in the new light of my life with her,His older love return’d with oldest warmth:“To think so thin a fancy,” he exclaim’d,“As last I found you folded in, should screenOur genuine hearts, a moment, each from each!”
But weeks and months went by, in which she fill’dA certain void in life; and, every eve,We parted for the night made better friends.Once, ending thus, the pleasures of the day,We chanced upon a path where, sauntering too,Lo, Elbert enter’d and encounter’d us.
But weeks and months went by, in which she fill’d
A certain void in life; and, every eve,
We parted for the night made better friends.
Once, ending thus, the pleasures of the day,
We chanced upon a path where, sauntering too,
Lo, Elbert enter’d and encounter’d us.
At first scarce friendly, after divers tests,And in the new light of my life with her,His older love return’d with oldest warmth:“To think so thin a fancy,” he exclaim’d,“As last I found you folded in, should screenOur genuine hearts, a moment, each from each!”
At first scarce friendly, after divers tests,
And in the new light of my life with her,
His older love return’d with oldest warmth:
“To think so thin a fancy,” he exclaim’d,
“As last I found you folded in, should screen
Our genuine hearts, a moment, each from each!”
The fancy thin!—I let him keep his word;I would not argue.—Still, with care not loathTo guard some credit yet for having sense,I hinted at the truth,—how I had changed,And how had changed my thoughts about myself,About my life-work. “For that fancy, friend,That fancy thin my own true self reveal’d.If spray it were, it left a constant seaThat heaves and heaves. With moods that move like mine,So madden’d by traditions, calm’d by dreams,Content scarce ever, till at hazard dash’dThrough ways that lead to sheer uncertainty,Where fancy more may seek than matter showsIn things that are but matter,—what am IFor life-work such as priesthood, sure in creedsAnd sureties for the soul, whereon may leanAll weaker faith, with warrant not to bend?”
The fancy thin!—I let him keep his word;I would not argue.—Still, with care not loathTo guard some credit yet for having sense,I hinted at the truth,—how I had changed,And how had changed my thoughts about myself,About my life-work. “For that fancy, friend,That fancy thin my own true self reveal’d.If spray it were, it left a constant seaThat heaves and heaves. With moods that move like mine,So madden’d by traditions, calm’d by dreams,Content scarce ever, till at hazard dash’dThrough ways that lead to sheer uncertainty,Where fancy more may seek than matter showsIn things that are but matter,—what am IFor life-work such as priesthood, sure in creedsAnd sureties for the soul, whereon may leanAll weaker faith, with warrant not to bend?”
The fancy thin!—I let him keep his word;I would not argue.—Still, with care not loathTo guard some credit yet for having sense,I hinted at the truth,—how I had changed,And how had changed my thoughts about myself,About my life-work. “For that fancy, friend,That fancy thin my own true self reveal’d.If spray it were, it left a constant seaThat heaves and heaves. With moods that move like mine,So madden’d by traditions, calm’d by dreams,Content scarce ever, till at hazard dash’dThrough ways that lead to sheer uncertainty,Where fancy more may seek than matter showsIn things that are but matter,—what am IFor life-work such as priesthood, sure in creedsAnd sureties for the soul, whereon may leanAll weaker faith, with warrant not to bend?”
The fancy thin!—I let him keep his word;
I would not argue.—Still, with care not loath
To guard some credit yet for having sense,
I hinted at the truth,—how I had changed,
And how had changed my thoughts about myself,
About my life-work. “For that fancy, friend,
That fancy thin my own true self reveal’d.
If spray it were, it left a constant sea
That heaves and heaves. With moods that move like mine,
So madden’d by traditions, calm’d by dreams,
Content scarce ever, till at hazard dash’d
Through ways that lead to sheer uncertainty,
Where fancy more may seek than matter shows
In things that are but matter,—what am I
For life-work such as priesthood, sure in creeds
And sureties for the soul, whereon may lean
All weaker faith, with warrant not to bend?”
Then Elbert laugh’d. “Ah, were you but a bow,Your bending most would shoot most.—Not a priest?A man alone?—You yet a brother areTo many a soul that sails the sea of life,Where oft the horizon trembles with the changeOf wind and wave; and hope, too hale, oft mournsFair promises, like skies that fade in fog.A man alone?—And yet the moods of manMay make men love us for our manliness,Who draw them, Christ-like through our sympathy,Toward self,—God’s image here, and thus toward Him.”“But draw them how?” I cried. “Woe me, I stand,A poet born, who deem’d his Muse had fled;That time and trouble had a stone roll’d up,Her sweet form sealing in their sepulchre.And yet one breath of love could rouse the dead.All day the subtle spirit haunts me now,Thrill’d through and through to sound her sweetness forth.”“Then let it sound!” he said. “Rare rest it were,Were all one’s recreation freshen’d thus;And slumber serenaded by the Muse.”“One’s recreation! slumber!” I exclaim’d;“Is mind a deep that wells with most of thoughtWhen void the most? I tell you none can drawA truthful inspiration save from truth.The poet’s ken may people heaven like clouds,All phantom shaped, and splendid as their sun;But all his fairest forms were vapors firstThat heaven drew, mist-like, from the earth beneath.Thought decks itself in holiday attire,—Turns fantasy,—to expend the inertia largeOf large reserves of philosophic force,Forced into play, the night’s dream opening whereThe day’s work closes.”“Close work thus,” he said;“And all the measures of your verse may showHow sweet can be the echoes waked anonBy labor’s ringing anvil.”“Nay,” I sigh’d.“Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams.When born with souls like harps the Muse would play,What better can men do than toil to keepTheir thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth?For this will tax them wholly. They, who try,With those few strings that fate has given to them,To play all parts of all the orchestraWill help the play of no part. We are men;And straight and narrow must our pathways be.If, Adam-like, we would be gods, we fall.Not given to mortal is the life supreme,In naught unbalanced, laden light in naught,Existence evermore at equipoise,Complete with that which on itself depends.Oft, who his worth would double, nothing doesExcept to break the back of worth that was,While doubled burdens fall to doubled waste.We men should humbler be, and pray to heavenTo have horizons hanging nearer us.Our views too broad unfit us for the earth,Yet fit us not for loneliness divine,—The wide chill chaos, back behind the stars.”
Then Elbert laugh’d. “Ah, were you but a bow,Your bending most would shoot most.—Not a priest?A man alone?—You yet a brother areTo many a soul that sails the sea of life,Where oft the horizon trembles with the changeOf wind and wave; and hope, too hale, oft mournsFair promises, like skies that fade in fog.A man alone?—And yet the moods of manMay make men love us for our manliness,Who draw them, Christ-like through our sympathy,Toward self,—God’s image here, and thus toward Him.”“But draw them how?” I cried. “Woe me, I stand,A poet born, who deem’d his Muse had fled;That time and trouble had a stone roll’d up,Her sweet form sealing in their sepulchre.And yet one breath of love could rouse the dead.All day the subtle spirit haunts me now,Thrill’d through and through to sound her sweetness forth.”“Then let it sound!” he said. “Rare rest it were,Were all one’s recreation freshen’d thus;And slumber serenaded by the Muse.”“One’s recreation! slumber!” I exclaim’d;“Is mind a deep that wells with most of thoughtWhen void the most? I tell you none can drawA truthful inspiration save from truth.The poet’s ken may people heaven like clouds,All phantom shaped, and splendid as their sun;But all his fairest forms were vapors firstThat heaven drew, mist-like, from the earth beneath.Thought decks itself in holiday attire,—Turns fantasy,—to expend the inertia largeOf large reserves of philosophic force,Forced into play, the night’s dream opening whereThe day’s work closes.”“Close work thus,” he said;“And all the measures of your verse may showHow sweet can be the echoes waked anonBy labor’s ringing anvil.”“Nay,” I sigh’d.“Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams.When born with souls like harps the Muse would play,What better can men do than toil to keepTheir thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth?For this will tax them wholly. They, who try,With those few strings that fate has given to them,To play all parts of all the orchestraWill help the play of no part. We are men;And straight and narrow must our pathways be.If, Adam-like, we would be gods, we fall.Not given to mortal is the life supreme,In naught unbalanced, laden light in naught,Existence evermore at equipoise,Complete with that which on itself depends.Oft, who his worth would double, nothing doesExcept to break the back of worth that was,While doubled burdens fall to doubled waste.We men should humbler be, and pray to heavenTo have horizons hanging nearer us.Our views too broad unfit us for the earth,Yet fit us not for loneliness divine,—The wide chill chaos, back behind the stars.”
Then Elbert laugh’d. “Ah, were you but a bow,Your bending most would shoot most.—Not a priest?A man alone?—You yet a brother areTo many a soul that sails the sea of life,Where oft the horizon trembles with the changeOf wind and wave; and hope, too hale, oft mournsFair promises, like skies that fade in fog.A man alone?—And yet the moods of manMay make men love us for our manliness,Who draw them, Christ-like through our sympathy,Toward self,—God’s image here, and thus toward Him.”
Then Elbert laugh’d. “Ah, were you but a bow,
Your bending most would shoot most.—Not a priest?
A man alone?—You yet a brother are
To many a soul that sails the sea of life,
Where oft the horizon trembles with the change
Of wind and wave; and hope, too hale, oft mourns
Fair promises, like skies that fade in fog.
A man alone?—And yet the moods of man
May make men love us for our manliness,
Who draw them, Christ-like through our sympathy,
Toward self,—God’s image here, and thus toward Him.”
“But draw them how?” I cried. “Woe me, I stand,A poet born, who deem’d his Muse had fled;That time and trouble had a stone roll’d up,Her sweet form sealing in their sepulchre.And yet one breath of love could rouse the dead.All day the subtle spirit haunts me now,Thrill’d through and through to sound her sweetness forth.”
“But draw them how?” I cried. “Woe me, I stand,
A poet born, who deem’d his Muse had fled;
That time and trouble had a stone roll’d up,
Her sweet form sealing in their sepulchre.
And yet one breath of love could rouse the dead.
All day the subtle spirit haunts me now,
Thrill’d through and through to sound her sweetness forth.”
“Then let it sound!” he said. “Rare rest it were,Were all one’s recreation freshen’d thus;And slumber serenaded by the Muse.”
“Then let it sound!” he said. “Rare rest it were,
Were all one’s recreation freshen’d thus;
And slumber serenaded by the Muse.”
“One’s recreation! slumber!” I exclaim’d;“Is mind a deep that wells with most of thoughtWhen void the most? I tell you none can drawA truthful inspiration save from truth.The poet’s ken may people heaven like clouds,All phantom shaped, and splendid as their sun;But all his fairest forms were vapors firstThat heaven drew, mist-like, from the earth beneath.Thought decks itself in holiday attire,—Turns fantasy,—to expend the inertia largeOf large reserves of philosophic force,Forced into play, the night’s dream opening whereThe day’s work closes.”“Close work thus,” he said;“And all the measures of your verse may showHow sweet can be the echoes waked anonBy labor’s ringing anvil.”“Nay,” I sigh’d.“Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams.When born with souls like harps the Muse would play,What better can men do than toil to keepTheir thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth?For this will tax them wholly. They, who try,With those few strings that fate has given to them,To play all parts of all the orchestraWill help the play of no part. We are men;And straight and narrow must our pathways be.If, Adam-like, we would be gods, we fall.Not given to mortal is the life supreme,In naught unbalanced, laden light in naught,Existence evermore at equipoise,Complete with that which on itself depends.Oft, who his worth would double, nothing doesExcept to break the back of worth that was,While doubled burdens fall to doubled waste.We men should humbler be, and pray to heavenTo have horizons hanging nearer us.Our views too broad unfit us for the earth,Yet fit us not for loneliness divine,—The wide chill chaos, back behind the stars.”
“One’s recreation! slumber!” I exclaim’d;
“Is mind a deep that wells with most of thought
When void the most? I tell you none can draw
A truthful inspiration save from truth.
The poet’s ken may people heaven like clouds,
All phantom shaped, and splendid as their sun;
But all his fairest forms were vapors first
That heaven drew, mist-like, from the earth beneath.
Thought decks itself in holiday attire,—
Turns fantasy,—to expend the inertia large
Of large reserves of philosophic force,
Forced into play, the night’s dream opening where
The day’s work closes.”
“Close work thus,” he said;
“And all the measures of your verse may show
How sweet can be the echoes waked anon
By labor’s ringing anvil.”
“Nay,” I sigh’d.
“Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams.
When born with souls like harps the Muse would play,
What better can men do than toil to keep
Their thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth?
For this will tax them wholly. They, who try,
With those few strings that fate has given to them,
To play all parts of all the orchestra
Will help the play of no part. We are men;
And straight and narrow must our pathways be.
If, Adam-like, we would be gods, we fall.
Not given to mortal is the life supreme,
In naught unbalanced, laden light in naught,
Existence evermore at equipoise,
Complete with that which on itself depends.
Oft, who his worth would double, nothing does
Except to break the back of worth that was,
While doubled burdens fall to doubled waste.
We men should humbler be, and pray to heaven
To have horizons hanging nearer us.
Our views too broad unfit us for the earth,
Yet fit us not for loneliness divine,—
The wide chill chaos, back behind the stars.”
Thus would I talk, and trouble Elbert much,For he would rouse me in his rattling way:“Why, Norman, you are hedging all our hopes.Do not you pity moods that dote on you?If, man, your metaphysics be not yetBeyond all physics, pray you, cure yourself;Be more material; or material powersWill alienated grow, and so forgetAnd count you out in all their reckonings;And you who are of earth, will earth own not;And you who would be heaven’s, will heaven own not.To own yourself and only own yourself,Is worse than serfdom that has earn’d a smile,Though but from wrinkling cheeks of sham good-will.”
Thus would I talk, and trouble Elbert much,For he would rouse me in his rattling way:“Why, Norman, you are hedging all our hopes.Do not you pity moods that dote on you?If, man, your metaphysics be not yetBeyond all physics, pray you, cure yourself;Be more material; or material powersWill alienated grow, and so forgetAnd count you out in all their reckonings;And you who are of earth, will earth own not;And you who would be heaven’s, will heaven own not.To own yourself and only own yourself,Is worse than serfdom that has earn’d a smile,Though but from wrinkling cheeks of sham good-will.”
Thus would I talk, and trouble Elbert much,For he would rouse me in his rattling way:“Why, Norman, you are hedging all our hopes.Do not you pity moods that dote on you?If, man, your metaphysics be not yetBeyond all physics, pray you, cure yourself;Be more material; or material powersWill alienated grow, and so forgetAnd count you out in all their reckonings;And you who are of earth, will earth own not;And you who would be heaven’s, will heaven own not.To own yourself and only own yourself,Is worse than serfdom that has earn’d a smile,Though but from wrinkling cheeks of sham good-will.”
Thus would I talk, and trouble Elbert much,
For he would rouse me in his rattling way:
“Why, Norman, you are hedging all our hopes.
Do not you pity moods that dote on you?
If, man, your metaphysics be not yet
Beyond all physics, pray you, cure yourself;
Be more material; or material powers
Will alienated grow, and so forget
And count you out in all their reckonings;
And you who are of earth, will earth own not;
And you who would be heaven’s, will heaven own not.
To own yourself and only own yourself,
Is worse than serfdom that has earn’d a smile,
Though but from wrinkling cheeks of sham good-will.”
Then, through my gloom exploring for its cause,His thought would light on Edith. He was right;Perhaps less right, grew garrulous of Grace.For deeming love’s return my only hope,And, seeking this, resolved, as well, to find it,My slightest flush could furnish him a glowAs bright to light his pathway as the day.Of course I could deny it; say I heldNo key to spring the latch of love like hers.Our lips, but parting e’en to speak of love,Infringe on Cupid; and, before they shut,Some tingling arrow of that jealous godWill make them drop all soberness.He laugh’d:“Now say you never saw the sea, for waves;Or stars, for twinkling; or the trees, for leaves;But tell me not, you never saw the heartThat bosom heaves; nor ever saw the playOf faith and freak within that twinkling eye;Nor ever saw the spirit when the smileThat breaks in laughter shakes the form aside.Come, friend, I know you better. Say you err;Or, by my soul, I never read you yet.”“And more,” said I; “she is not my ideal.”He laugh’d again: “Most men who court idealsHave first their idol; and, the false god fell’d,Hoard then the fringe that dangled on its train,And spend their lives in hunting other trainsTo match but forms and colors of the first.It strikes me, friend, that all things truthful grow.E’en love outgrows the fashion of its youth:—The world whirls on apace; and different huesTurn toward the noonday-sun. No dawn returns.What form or color robes the infinite?—Yet aught to worship matches that alone.So look you less for worship, than for worth.You need a mate, friend; not a mystery.”“A mate,” I said, “but she for whims could waiveThe truth whereto was anchor’d all my soul.”
Then, through my gloom exploring for its cause,His thought would light on Edith. He was right;Perhaps less right, grew garrulous of Grace.For deeming love’s return my only hope,And, seeking this, resolved, as well, to find it,My slightest flush could furnish him a glowAs bright to light his pathway as the day.Of course I could deny it; say I heldNo key to spring the latch of love like hers.Our lips, but parting e’en to speak of love,Infringe on Cupid; and, before they shut,Some tingling arrow of that jealous godWill make them drop all soberness.He laugh’d:“Now say you never saw the sea, for waves;Or stars, for twinkling; or the trees, for leaves;But tell me not, you never saw the heartThat bosom heaves; nor ever saw the playOf faith and freak within that twinkling eye;Nor ever saw the spirit when the smileThat breaks in laughter shakes the form aside.Come, friend, I know you better. Say you err;Or, by my soul, I never read you yet.”“And more,” said I; “she is not my ideal.”He laugh’d again: “Most men who court idealsHave first their idol; and, the false god fell’d,Hoard then the fringe that dangled on its train,And spend their lives in hunting other trainsTo match but forms and colors of the first.It strikes me, friend, that all things truthful grow.E’en love outgrows the fashion of its youth:—The world whirls on apace; and different huesTurn toward the noonday-sun. No dawn returns.What form or color robes the infinite?—Yet aught to worship matches that alone.So look you less for worship, than for worth.You need a mate, friend; not a mystery.”“A mate,” I said, “but she for whims could waiveThe truth whereto was anchor’d all my soul.”
Then, through my gloom exploring for its cause,His thought would light on Edith. He was right;Perhaps less right, grew garrulous of Grace.For deeming love’s return my only hope,And, seeking this, resolved, as well, to find it,My slightest flush could furnish him a glowAs bright to light his pathway as the day.
Then, through my gloom exploring for its cause,
His thought would light on Edith. He was right;
Perhaps less right, grew garrulous of Grace.
For deeming love’s return my only hope,
And, seeking this, resolved, as well, to find it,
My slightest flush could furnish him a glow
As bright to light his pathway as the day.
Of course I could deny it; say I heldNo key to spring the latch of love like hers.Our lips, but parting e’en to speak of love,Infringe on Cupid; and, before they shut,Some tingling arrow of that jealous godWill make them drop all soberness.He laugh’d:“Now say you never saw the sea, for waves;Or stars, for twinkling; or the trees, for leaves;But tell me not, you never saw the heartThat bosom heaves; nor ever saw the playOf faith and freak within that twinkling eye;Nor ever saw the spirit when the smileThat breaks in laughter shakes the form aside.Come, friend, I know you better. Say you err;Or, by my soul, I never read you yet.”
Of course I could deny it; say I held
No key to spring the latch of love like hers.
Our lips, but parting e’en to speak of love,
Infringe on Cupid; and, before they shut,
Some tingling arrow of that jealous god
Will make them drop all soberness.
He laugh’d:
“Now say you never saw the sea, for waves;
Or stars, for twinkling; or the trees, for leaves;
But tell me not, you never saw the heart
That bosom heaves; nor ever saw the play
Of faith and freak within that twinkling eye;
Nor ever saw the spirit when the smile
That breaks in laughter shakes the form aside.
Come, friend, I know you better. Say you err;
Or, by my soul, I never read you yet.”
“And more,” said I; “she is not my ideal.”
“And more,” said I; “she is not my ideal.”
He laugh’d again: “Most men who court idealsHave first their idol; and, the false god fell’d,Hoard then the fringe that dangled on its train,And spend their lives in hunting other trainsTo match but forms and colors of the first.It strikes me, friend, that all things truthful grow.E’en love outgrows the fashion of its youth:—The world whirls on apace; and different huesTurn toward the noonday-sun. No dawn returns.What form or color robes the infinite?—Yet aught to worship matches that alone.So look you less for worship, than for worth.You need a mate, friend; not a mystery.”
He laugh’d again: “Most men who court ideals
Have first their idol; and, the false god fell’d,
Hoard then the fringe that dangled on its train,
And spend their lives in hunting other trains
To match but forms and colors of the first.
It strikes me, friend, that all things truthful grow.
E’en love outgrows the fashion of its youth:—
The world whirls on apace; and different hues
Turn toward the noonday-sun. No dawn returns.
What form or color robes the infinite?—
Yet aught to worship matches that alone.
So look you less for worship, than for worth.
You need a mate, friend; not a mystery.”
“A mate,” I said, “but she for whims could waiveThe truth whereto was anchor’d all my soul.”
“A mate,” I said, “but she for whims could waive
The truth whereto was anchor’d all my soul.”
Still Elbert parried me: “To hear you prateOf truth—with women!—Why, you tried that once,With Edith, not so?—and she liked it, eh?Herself had love for that same truth?—What then?—How very strange, when yesterday she pass’d,She craved no more of it.”“She pass’d?” I cried.“Ay, ay,” said he; “while you, so wrapp’d in Grace,Walk’d near, and noted nothing. How she turn’d!—Then spoke of ‘haste, such haste, she could not stay’;And bade me ‘not to tell’ you.—Thus, you see,I keep my word; I promised nothing though.”At this, I blush’d; it but encouraged him.“This flame of sympathy you deem’d so brightExtinguish’d was—you may have thought by me.If so, I tell you, friend, ’twas lightly done.I but outblew you; and the moral is:—True flames, these women flicker with the wind.But use you breath enough, their natures yield.Yet blow for their sakes, not for your ideals.One seldom finds a sweetheart sweet enoughTo love her suitor’s pinings for mere whims.Nay, they alone our all-in-all would be;And so are jealous of our male ideals.Then, too, they are creative less than we,And cling more to the creature, love and serveEmbodied life that may be seen and felt.You doubt me?—Test it.—Read that rhyme you wrote,Inspired by fancy.—Say so;—still they hint.‘Ah, this was she, or she, whom once he loved.’It may be, Grace does waive your love of truth.If so, ’tis better; more you seem her own.”“More likely,” cried I, “I and all my truthSeem like champagne,—a thing that pops and shocks,But yet enlivens when the hour is dull.”“She likes the shocking,” said he. “Know you notMost maids love mastery? and the closest clingTo those who show the strength to hold them fast?Full many a suitor, when he wins his love,Will treat her merely like some petted puss,Caress, then cuff her, till she yield at last,Won solely through his wondrous wilfulness.If one defer to her, she pities him;And names him friend, because she feels him frail.Her favorite cavalier seems less a friend,At first, than foe who stays the brunt in timeTo seem to save her when she seems to fall.”“And should make him fall,” cried I. “’Tis not strangeSuch onsets numb her senses! Heaven preserveThe world from women rear’d to feel but weak,Whose whole experience, nurtur’d not to think,Unfolds in passions pert of wishes dwarf’d,Afraid of truth and dodging to deceit!Let loose from home, their thing that ought to thinkIs dry and hollow as a sounding-boardBehind a tongue that, like a weather vane,Creaks with the windy scandal of the townTill endless malice make one’s ear-drum ache,At one spot hammer’d sore, and o’er and o’er,With humdrum gossip of surrounding naught.Small gain are they, to crown our courtships grand,Prinked out with flowers and flattery! Wise man;Flowers draw the bee, and flattery the fool.One stings; the other—Laugh not, Elbert, nay,You know it well, what friendship craves; and theseLight, simpering women, testing manhood’s woofBy worthless nap that tickles their vanity,—O I shall wait some coming woman, I,Who needs no suing since in soul we suit;Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!—But all maids grow to us, when wedded once;For practical, they are, far more than men,And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish,Through bait they crave not ere men tender it,They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn,Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth—To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus,Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there.Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals,Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,—Despite your protest, your true mate; and loveIn maids like her is limitless when won.You like her, too; now, now”—
Still Elbert parried me: “To hear you prateOf truth—with women!—Why, you tried that once,With Edith, not so?—and she liked it, eh?Herself had love for that same truth?—What then?—How very strange, when yesterday she pass’d,She craved no more of it.”“She pass’d?” I cried.“Ay, ay,” said he; “while you, so wrapp’d in Grace,Walk’d near, and noted nothing. How she turn’d!—Then spoke of ‘haste, such haste, she could not stay’;And bade me ‘not to tell’ you.—Thus, you see,I keep my word; I promised nothing though.”At this, I blush’d; it but encouraged him.“This flame of sympathy you deem’d so brightExtinguish’d was—you may have thought by me.If so, I tell you, friend, ’twas lightly done.I but outblew you; and the moral is:—True flames, these women flicker with the wind.But use you breath enough, their natures yield.Yet blow for their sakes, not for your ideals.One seldom finds a sweetheart sweet enoughTo love her suitor’s pinings for mere whims.Nay, they alone our all-in-all would be;And so are jealous of our male ideals.Then, too, they are creative less than we,And cling more to the creature, love and serveEmbodied life that may be seen and felt.You doubt me?—Test it.—Read that rhyme you wrote,Inspired by fancy.—Say so;—still they hint.‘Ah, this was she, or she, whom once he loved.’It may be, Grace does waive your love of truth.If so, ’tis better; more you seem her own.”“More likely,” cried I, “I and all my truthSeem like champagne,—a thing that pops and shocks,But yet enlivens when the hour is dull.”“She likes the shocking,” said he. “Know you notMost maids love mastery? and the closest clingTo those who show the strength to hold them fast?Full many a suitor, when he wins his love,Will treat her merely like some petted puss,Caress, then cuff her, till she yield at last,Won solely through his wondrous wilfulness.If one defer to her, she pities him;And names him friend, because she feels him frail.Her favorite cavalier seems less a friend,At first, than foe who stays the brunt in timeTo seem to save her when she seems to fall.”“And should make him fall,” cried I. “’Tis not strangeSuch onsets numb her senses! Heaven preserveThe world from women rear’d to feel but weak,Whose whole experience, nurtur’d not to think,Unfolds in passions pert of wishes dwarf’d,Afraid of truth and dodging to deceit!Let loose from home, their thing that ought to thinkIs dry and hollow as a sounding-boardBehind a tongue that, like a weather vane,Creaks with the windy scandal of the townTill endless malice make one’s ear-drum ache,At one spot hammer’d sore, and o’er and o’er,With humdrum gossip of surrounding naught.Small gain are they, to crown our courtships grand,Prinked out with flowers and flattery! Wise man;Flowers draw the bee, and flattery the fool.One stings; the other—Laugh not, Elbert, nay,You know it well, what friendship craves; and theseLight, simpering women, testing manhood’s woofBy worthless nap that tickles their vanity,—O I shall wait some coming woman, I,Who needs no suing since in soul we suit;Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!—But all maids grow to us, when wedded once;For practical, they are, far more than men,And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish,Through bait they crave not ere men tender it,They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn,Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth—To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus,Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there.Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals,Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,—Despite your protest, your true mate; and loveIn maids like her is limitless when won.You like her, too; now, now”—
Still Elbert parried me: “To hear you prateOf truth—with women!—Why, you tried that once,With Edith, not so?—and she liked it, eh?Herself had love for that same truth?—What then?—How very strange, when yesterday she pass’d,She craved no more of it.”“She pass’d?” I cried.
Still Elbert parried me: “To hear you prate
Of truth—with women!—Why, you tried that once,
With Edith, not so?—and she liked it, eh?
Herself had love for that same truth?—What then?—
How very strange, when yesterday she pass’d,
She craved no more of it.”
“She pass’d?” I cried.
“Ay, ay,” said he; “while you, so wrapp’d in Grace,Walk’d near, and noted nothing. How she turn’d!—Then spoke of ‘haste, such haste, she could not stay’;And bade me ‘not to tell’ you.—Thus, you see,I keep my word; I promised nothing though.”
“Ay, ay,” said he; “while you, so wrapp’d in Grace,
Walk’d near, and noted nothing. How she turn’d!—
Then spoke of ‘haste, such haste, she could not stay’;
And bade me ‘not to tell’ you.—Thus, you see,
I keep my word; I promised nothing though.”
At this, I blush’d; it but encouraged him.
At this, I blush’d; it but encouraged him.
“This flame of sympathy you deem’d so brightExtinguish’d was—you may have thought by me.If so, I tell you, friend, ’twas lightly done.I but outblew you; and the moral is:—True flames, these women flicker with the wind.But use you breath enough, their natures yield.Yet blow for their sakes, not for your ideals.One seldom finds a sweetheart sweet enoughTo love her suitor’s pinings for mere whims.Nay, they alone our all-in-all would be;And so are jealous of our male ideals.Then, too, they are creative less than we,And cling more to the creature, love and serveEmbodied life that may be seen and felt.You doubt me?—Test it.—Read that rhyme you wrote,Inspired by fancy.—Say so;—still they hint.‘Ah, this was she, or she, whom once he loved.’It may be, Grace does waive your love of truth.If so, ’tis better; more you seem her own.”
“This flame of sympathy you deem’d so bright
Extinguish’d was—you may have thought by me.
If so, I tell you, friend, ’twas lightly done.
I but outblew you; and the moral is:—
True flames, these women flicker with the wind.
But use you breath enough, their natures yield.
Yet blow for their sakes, not for your ideals.
One seldom finds a sweetheart sweet enough
To love her suitor’s pinings for mere whims.
Nay, they alone our all-in-all would be;
And so are jealous of our male ideals.
Then, too, they are creative less than we,
And cling more to the creature, love and serve
Embodied life that may be seen and felt.
You doubt me?—Test it.—Read that rhyme you wrote,
Inspired by fancy.—Say so;—still they hint.
‘Ah, this was she, or she, whom once he loved.’
It may be, Grace does waive your love of truth.
If so, ’tis better; more you seem her own.”
“More likely,” cried I, “I and all my truthSeem like champagne,—a thing that pops and shocks,But yet enlivens when the hour is dull.”
“More likely,” cried I, “I and all my truth
Seem like champagne,—a thing that pops and shocks,
But yet enlivens when the hour is dull.”
“She likes the shocking,” said he. “Know you notMost maids love mastery? and the closest clingTo those who show the strength to hold them fast?Full many a suitor, when he wins his love,Will treat her merely like some petted puss,Caress, then cuff her, till she yield at last,Won solely through his wondrous wilfulness.If one defer to her, she pities him;And names him friend, because she feels him frail.Her favorite cavalier seems less a friend,At first, than foe who stays the brunt in timeTo seem to save her when she seems to fall.”
“She likes the shocking,” said he. “Know you not
Most maids love mastery? and the closest cling
To those who show the strength to hold them fast?
Full many a suitor, when he wins his love,
Will treat her merely like some petted puss,
Caress, then cuff her, till she yield at last,
Won solely through his wondrous wilfulness.
If one defer to her, she pities him;
And names him friend, because she feels him frail.
Her favorite cavalier seems less a friend,
At first, than foe who stays the brunt in time
To seem to save her when she seems to fall.”
“And should make him fall,” cried I. “’Tis not strangeSuch onsets numb her senses! Heaven preserveThe world from women rear’d to feel but weak,Whose whole experience, nurtur’d not to think,Unfolds in passions pert of wishes dwarf’d,Afraid of truth and dodging to deceit!Let loose from home, their thing that ought to thinkIs dry and hollow as a sounding-boardBehind a tongue that, like a weather vane,Creaks with the windy scandal of the townTill endless malice make one’s ear-drum ache,At one spot hammer’d sore, and o’er and o’er,With humdrum gossip of surrounding naught.Small gain are they, to crown our courtships grand,Prinked out with flowers and flattery! Wise man;Flowers draw the bee, and flattery the fool.One stings; the other—Laugh not, Elbert, nay,You know it well, what friendship craves; and theseLight, simpering women, testing manhood’s woofBy worthless nap that tickles their vanity,—O I shall wait some coming woman, I,Who needs no suing since in soul we suit;Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”
“And should make him fall,” cried I. “’Tis not strange
Such onsets numb her senses! Heaven preserve
The world from women rear’d to feel but weak,
Whose whole experience, nurtur’d not to think,
Unfolds in passions pert of wishes dwarf’d,
Afraid of truth and dodging to deceit!
Let loose from home, their thing that ought to think
Is dry and hollow as a sounding-board
Behind a tongue that, like a weather vane,
Creaks with the windy scandal of the town
Till endless malice make one’s ear-drum ache,
At one spot hammer’d sore, and o’er and o’er,
With humdrum gossip of surrounding naught.
Small gain are they, to crown our courtships grand,
Prinked out with flowers and flattery! Wise man;
Flowers draw the bee, and flattery the fool.
One stings; the other—Laugh not, Elbert, nay,
You know it well, what friendship craves; and these
Light, simpering women, testing manhood’s woof
By worthless nap that tickles their vanity,—
O I shall wait some coming woman, I,
Who needs no suing since in soul we suit;
Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”
“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!—But all maids grow to us, when wedded once;For practical, they are, far more than men,And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish,Through bait they crave not ere men tender it,They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn,Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth—To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus,Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there.Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals,Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,—Despite your protest, your true mate; and loveIn maids like her is limitless when won.You like her, too; now, now”—
“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!—
But all maids grow to us, when wedded once;
For practical, they are, far more than men,
And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish,
Through bait they crave not ere men tender it,
They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn,
Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth—
To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus,
Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there.
Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals,
Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,—
Despite your protest, your true mate; and love
In maids like her is limitless when won.
You like her, too; now, now”—
And so we talk’d.I never thought it meant much; for we talk’dOf all things, almost; and, in play, at times,Would I indulge in hopes that he was right.Once too, far up in clouds, my fancy feign’dTo question if her friends, or she, would wishMy calling to be hers. I scarce had dream’dOf Elbert’s giving weight to whims like this.Yet after that I mark’d him much with Grace;But naught surmised until, one time, he said:“All right, my Norman; I have talk’d with her;All but to tell her why I talk’d with her;And with her parents talk’d, and now they allAgree in praising plans of life like yours;These latter actually sighing oft,‘Would we but had a son for work like that!’So, friend, your way is clear.”
And so we talk’d.I never thought it meant much; for we talk’dOf all things, almost; and, in play, at times,Would I indulge in hopes that he was right.Once too, far up in clouds, my fancy feign’dTo question if her friends, or she, would wishMy calling to be hers. I scarce had dream’dOf Elbert’s giving weight to whims like this.Yet after that I mark’d him much with Grace;But naught surmised until, one time, he said:“All right, my Norman; I have talk’d with her;All but to tell her why I talk’d with her;And with her parents talk’d, and now they allAgree in praising plans of life like yours;These latter actually sighing oft,‘Would we but had a son for work like that!’So, friend, your way is clear.”
And so we talk’d.I never thought it meant much; for we talk’dOf all things, almost; and, in play, at times,Would I indulge in hopes that he was right.Once too, far up in clouds, my fancy feign’dTo question if her friends, or she, would wishMy calling to be hers. I scarce had dream’dOf Elbert’s giving weight to whims like this.Yet after that I mark’d him much with Grace;But naught surmised until, one time, he said:
And so we talk’d.
I never thought it meant much; for we talk’d
Of all things, almost; and, in play, at times,
Would I indulge in hopes that he was right.
Once too, far up in clouds, my fancy feign’d
To question if her friends, or she, would wish
My calling to be hers. I scarce had dream’d
Of Elbert’s giving weight to whims like this.
Yet after that I mark’d him much with Grace;
But naught surmised until, one time, he said:
“All right, my Norman; I have talk’d with her;All but to tell her why I talk’d with her;And with her parents talk’d, and now they allAgree in praising plans of life like yours;These latter actually sighing oft,‘Would we but had a son for work like that!’So, friend, your way is clear.”
“All right, my Norman; I have talk’d with her;
All but to tell her why I talk’d with her;
And with her parents talk’d, and now they all
Agree in praising plans of life like yours;
These latter actually sighing oft,
‘Would we but had a son for work like that!’
So, friend, your way is clear.”
But was it clear?—So sure was it, that I could pluck this fruit?If sure, so sure the Eden open’d notTo tempt, as well as bless me?—Could it beThat love could yet be mine?—The hope seem’d sweet;Yet strange!—Why strange?—The change?—Seem’d all change so?—Yet marriage?—Why did mortals marry then?—For love, they said, for love. And what was love?What more than liking well?—Whom liked I so;And all in all, and always?—Edith?—What?—And liked her calling?—If I liked not that,I liked not her, not wholly. If not her,Then liked I no one wholly; and my willIn love, as in all other earthly states,A choice must make,—take one of different boons,And all imperfect. Why should not my loveServe thus my judgment? Grace could stand this test,And life with one like her so sweet could be!
But was it clear?—So sure was it, that I could pluck this fruit?If sure, so sure the Eden open’d notTo tempt, as well as bless me?—Could it beThat love could yet be mine?—The hope seem’d sweet;Yet strange!—Why strange?—The change?—Seem’d all change so?—Yet marriage?—Why did mortals marry then?—For love, they said, for love. And what was love?What more than liking well?—Whom liked I so;And all in all, and always?—Edith?—What?—And liked her calling?—If I liked not that,I liked not her, not wholly. If not her,Then liked I no one wholly; and my willIn love, as in all other earthly states,A choice must make,—take one of different boons,And all imperfect. Why should not my loveServe thus my judgment? Grace could stand this test,And life with one like her so sweet could be!
But was it clear?—So sure was it, that I could pluck this fruit?If sure, so sure the Eden open’d notTo tempt, as well as bless me?—Could it beThat love could yet be mine?—The hope seem’d sweet;Yet strange!—Why strange?—The change?—Seem’d all change so?—Yet marriage?—Why did mortals marry then?—For love, they said, for love. And what was love?What more than liking well?—Whom liked I so;And all in all, and always?—Edith?—What?—And liked her calling?—If I liked not that,I liked not her, not wholly. If not her,Then liked I no one wholly; and my willIn love, as in all other earthly states,A choice must make,—take one of different boons,And all imperfect. Why should not my loveServe thus my judgment? Grace could stand this test,And life with one like her so sweet could be!
But was it clear?—
So sure was it, that I could pluck this fruit?
If sure, so sure the Eden open’d not
To tempt, as well as bless me?—Could it be
That love could yet be mine?—The hope seem’d sweet;
Yet strange!—Why strange?—The change?—
Seem’d all change so?—
Yet marriage?—Why did mortals marry then?—
For love, they said, for love. And what was love?
What more than liking well?—Whom liked I so;
And all in all, and always?—Edith?—What?—
And liked her calling?—If I liked not that,
I liked not her, not wholly. If not her,
Then liked I no one wholly; and my will
In love, as in all other earthly states,
A choice must make,—take one of different boons,
And all imperfect. Why should not my love
Serve thus my judgment? Grace could stand this test,
And life with one like her so sweet could be!
I thought; but all my thinking stirr’d but thoughtUntil, one time, I mused of other days;How once, and at the merest hint of love,My younger blood, like some just conquering hostThat trembling hope bears on, would bound through veinsThat thrill’d and thrill’d while shook each trodden pulse;How, hot as deserts parch’d by swift simoons,And wild as forests fell’d by sudden blasts,My frame would glow and bend at every breathThat tidings bore me of the soul I loved.Love Grace did I?—How then had love been tamed!Mere self-control was it, that now, grown strong,Had broken in, at last, that bounding blood,And held the rein to joy?—Ah, self-control,The rest rheumatic of a zest grown old,It came with time; but mine had come from care.Cold self-control, the curse of northern climes,The artful despot of the Arctic heart,—Before my summer scarce had warm’d me yet,Was it to freeze me with its wintry clutchOf colorless indifference? chill and checkThe springs of love till still’d in ice-like death?Woe me! I sigh’d; but then, with nobler cause,More nobly moved, I mourn’d that older love.It aye had come from regions far and pure,From sacred heights of dream-land and desire,And trailing light like Moses from the mount,With one hand clasping mine, one pointing upTo something earthly, yet more near the sky.It aye had thrill’d the throbbing veins it near’dAnd made my brow flush proudly as the boor’sWhen king’s hands knight him, and he bears awayEnnobled blood forever.—My mood though—This lax-limb’d, loitering, sisterly regard,So cold, so calm, so cautious,—what was this?—To call it love my spirit could have swoon’d,Shrunk like some parent’s when he first has foundHis fair babe’s brain to be a gibbering blank.—And then, down underneath my deep despair,Where heaved a sigh that loosen’d all my soul,Like some sweet kiss of sudden death that drawsTo sudden bliss, when men to heaven are snatch’dFrom all the roar and rage of war, there cameOne hope for Edith;—and my shaken powersLost hold of Grace forever!
I thought; but all my thinking stirr’d but thoughtUntil, one time, I mused of other days;How once, and at the merest hint of love,My younger blood, like some just conquering hostThat trembling hope bears on, would bound through veinsThat thrill’d and thrill’d while shook each trodden pulse;How, hot as deserts parch’d by swift simoons,And wild as forests fell’d by sudden blasts,My frame would glow and bend at every breathThat tidings bore me of the soul I loved.Love Grace did I?—How then had love been tamed!Mere self-control was it, that now, grown strong,Had broken in, at last, that bounding blood,And held the rein to joy?—Ah, self-control,The rest rheumatic of a zest grown old,It came with time; but mine had come from care.Cold self-control, the curse of northern climes,The artful despot of the Arctic heart,—Before my summer scarce had warm’d me yet,Was it to freeze me with its wintry clutchOf colorless indifference? chill and checkThe springs of love till still’d in ice-like death?Woe me! I sigh’d; but then, with nobler cause,More nobly moved, I mourn’d that older love.It aye had come from regions far and pure,From sacred heights of dream-land and desire,And trailing light like Moses from the mount,With one hand clasping mine, one pointing upTo something earthly, yet more near the sky.It aye had thrill’d the throbbing veins it near’dAnd made my brow flush proudly as the boor’sWhen king’s hands knight him, and he bears awayEnnobled blood forever.—My mood though—This lax-limb’d, loitering, sisterly regard,So cold, so calm, so cautious,—what was this?—To call it love my spirit could have swoon’d,Shrunk like some parent’s when he first has foundHis fair babe’s brain to be a gibbering blank.—And then, down underneath my deep despair,Where heaved a sigh that loosen’d all my soul,Like some sweet kiss of sudden death that drawsTo sudden bliss, when men to heaven are snatch’dFrom all the roar and rage of war, there cameOne hope for Edith;—and my shaken powersLost hold of Grace forever!
I thought; but all my thinking stirr’d but thoughtUntil, one time, I mused of other days;How once, and at the merest hint of love,My younger blood, like some just conquering hostThat trembling hope bears on, would bound through veinsThat thrill’d and thrill’d while shook each trodden pulse;How, hot as deserts parch’d by swift simoons,And wild as forests fell’d by sudden blasts,My frame would glow and bend at every breathThat tidings bore me of the soul I loved.Love Grace did I?—How then had love been tamed!Mere self-control was it, that now, grown strong,Had broken in, at last, that bounding blood,And held the rein to joy?—Ah, self-control,The rest rheumatic of a zest grown old,It came with time; but mine had come from care.Cold self-control, the curse of northern climes,The artful despot of the Arctic heart,—Before my summer scarce had warm’d me yet,Was it to freeze me with its wintry clutchOf colorless indifference? chill and checkThe springs of love till still’d in ice-like death?
I thought; but all my thinking stirr’d but thought
Until, one time, I mused of other days;
How once, and at the merest hint of love,
My younger blood, like some just conquering host
That trembling hope bears on, would bound through veins
That thrill’d and thrill’d while shook each trodden pulse;
How, hot as deserts parch’d by swift simoons,
And wild as forests fell’d by sudden blasts,
My frame would glow and bend at every breath
That tidings bore me of the soul I loved.
Love Grace did I?—How then had love been tamed!
Mere self-control was it, that now, grown strong,
Had broken in, at last, that bounding blood,
And held the rein to joy?—Ah, self-control,
The rest rheumatic of a zest grown old,
It came with time; but mine had come from care.
Cold self-control, the curse of northern climes,
The artful despot of the Arctic heart,—
Before my summer scarce had warm’d me yet,
Was it to freeze me with its wintry clutch
Of colorless indifference? chill and check
The springs of love till still’d in ice-like death?
Woe me! I sigh’d; but then, with nobler cause,More nobly moved, I mourn’d that older love.It aye had come from regions far and pure,From sacred heights of dream-land and desire,And trailing light like Moses from the mount,With one hand clasping mine, one pointing upTo something earthly, yet more near the sky.It aye had thrill’d the throbbing veins it near’dAnd made my brow flush proudly as the boor’sWhen king’s hands knight him, and he bears awayEnnobled blood forever.—My mood though—This lax-limb’d, loitering, sisterly regard,So cold, so calm, so cautious,—what was this?—To call it love my spirit could have swoon’d,Shrunk like some parent’s when he first has foundHis fair babe’s brain to be a gibbering blank.—And then, down underneath my deep despair,Where heaved a sigh that loosen’d all my soul,Like some sweet kiss of sudden death that drawsTo sudden bliss, when men to heaven are snatch’dFrom all the roar and rage of war, there cameOne hope for Edith;—and my shaken powersLost hold of Grace forever!
Woe me! I sigh’d; but then, with nobler cause,
More nobly moved, I mourn’d that older love.
It aye had come from regions far and pure,
From sacred heights of dream-land and desire,
And trailing light like Moses from the mount,
With one hand clasping mine, one pointing up
To something earthly, yet more near the sky.
It aye had thrill’d the throbbing veins it near’d
And made my brow flush proudly as the boor’s
When king’s hands knight him, and he bears away
Ennobled blood forever.—My mood though—
This lax-limb’d, loitering, sisterly regard,
So cold, so calm, so cautious,—what was this?—
To call it love my spirit could have swoon’d,
Shrunk like some parent’s when he first has found
His fair babe’s brain to be a gibbering blank.—
And then, down underneath my deep despair,
Where heaved a sigh that loosen’d all my soul,
Like some sweet kiss of sudden death that draws
To sudden bliss, when men to heaven are snatch’d
From all the roar and rage of war, there came
One hope for Edith;—and my shaken powers
Lost hold of Grace forever!
Still would doubtSurvive, and question if, when off my guard,In fancy rampant, I had Grace deceivedAs I had Elbert? Could it be, indeed,That I, who wish’d it not, had won her love?And if so, what?—The problem wore me thin.My very wits, indeed, seem’d whittled offTo point and probe it.Strangely was it solved.I dropp’d a vague surmise,—how two “should act,In case one loved, and love were not return’d.”She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush,That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truthFrom hers contagious, like a boy confused,All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim,I blurted out about my older love;To root it out would root out love itself,And not to do so, leave none else a place.“I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed,My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor.But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks,I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth;For had I wrench’d it from her bodily,Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’dMy wresting rudely such a secret thence.At one bound then my honor had return’d.A bandit had I been, to force the springThat lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!—And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,”I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power,New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart,And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins;And then I check’d it. She was not for me,Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all!“Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend,And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend;Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man.I go to him.”“Nay not to him,” she urged.But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d,Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit;Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not.
Still would doubtSurvive, and question if, when off my guard,In fancy rampant, I had Grace deceivedAs I had Elbert? Could it be, indeed,That I, who wish’d it not, had won her love?And if so, what?—The problem wore me thin.My very wits, indeed, seem’d whittled offTo point and probe it.Strangely was it solved.I dropp’d a vague surmise,—how two “should act,In case one loved, and love were not return’d.”She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush,That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truthFrom hers contagious, like a boy confused,All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim,I blurted out about my older love;To root it out would root out love itself,And not to do so, leave none else a place.“I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed,My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor.But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks,I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth;For had I wrench’d it from her bodily,Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’dMy wresting rudely such a secret thence.At one bound then my honor had return’d.A bandit had I been, to force the springThat lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!—And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,”I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power,New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart,And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins;And then I check’d it. She was not for me,Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all!“Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend,And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend;Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man.I go to him.”“Nay not to him,” she urged.But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d,Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit;Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not.
Still would doubtSurvive, and question if, when off my guard,In fancy rampant, I had Grace deceivedAs I had Elbert? Could it be, indeed,That I, who wish’d it not, had won her love?And if so, what?—The problem wore me thin.My very wits, indeed, seem’d whittled offTo point and probe it.Strangely was it solved.I dropp’d a vague surmise,—how two “should act,In case one loved, and love were not return’d.”
Still would doubt
Survive, and question if, when off my guard,
In fancy rampant, I had Grace deceived
As I had Elbert? Could it be, indeed,
That I, who wish’d it not, had won her love?
And if so, what?—The problem wore me thin.
My very wits, indeed, seem’d whittled off
To point and probe it.
Strangely was it solved.
I dropp’d a vague surmise,—how two “should act,
In case one loved, and love were not return’d.”
She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush,That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truthFrom hers contagious, like a boy confused,All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim,I blurted out about my older love;To root it out would root out love itself,And not to do so, leave none else a place.
She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush,
That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truth
From hers contagious, like a boy confused,
All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim,
I blurted out about my older love;
To root it out would root out love itself,
And not to do so, leave none else a place.
“I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed,My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor.But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks,I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth;For had I wrench’d it from her bodily,Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’dMy wresting rudely such a secret thence.At one bound then my honor had return’d.A bandit had I been, to force the springThat lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!—And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,”I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power,New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart,And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins;And then I check’d it. She was not for me,Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all!
“I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed,
My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor.
But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks,
I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth;
For had I wrench’d it from her bodily,
Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’d
My wresting rudely such a secret thence.
At one bound then my honor had return’d.
A bandit had I been, to force the spring
That lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!—
And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,”
I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power,
New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart,
And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins;
And then I check’d it. She was not for me,
Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all!
“Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend,And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend;Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man.I go to him.”“Nay not to him,” she urged.
“Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend,
And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend;
Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man.
I go to him.”
“Nay not to him,” she urged.
But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d,Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit;Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not.
But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d,
Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit;
Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not.
But Elbert, found, the whole sweet truth confess’d,With all his love for her so satisfied,And all the sacrifice for me so clear,I honor’d God the more from this, the hourI found His honor so encased in man.“Nay, thank me not,” he said. “You brought me her.Nor did I dream I loved her, ere I soughtYour cause to plead; and, aim’d for what it wills,My will is wilful. There, you know the whole.”And soon, as if he fear’d our former strifeWere not yet still’d, “And you, perhaps, were rightWith Edith, too,” he said; “at least, were safe.Hold still to truth. It yet may save us both.”
But Elbert, found, the whole sweet truth confess’d,With all his love for her so satisfied,And all the sacrifice for me so clear,I honor’d God the more from this, the hourI found His honor so encased in man.“Nay, thank me not,” he said. “You brought me her.Nor did I dream I loved her, ere I soughtYour cause to plead; and, aim’d for what it wills,My will is wilful. There, you know the whole.”And soon, as if he fear’d our former strifeWere not yet still’d, “And you, perhaps, were rightWith Edith, too,” he said; “at least, were safe.Hold still to truth. It yet may save us both.”
But Elbert, found, the whole sweet truth confess’d,With all his love for her so satisfied,And all the sacrifice for me so clear,I honor’d God the more from this, the hourI found His honor so encased in man.“Nay, thank me not,” he said. “You brought me her.Nor did I dream I loved her, ere I soughtYour cause to plead; and, aim’d for what it wills,My will is wilful. There, you know the whole.”And soon, as if he fear’d our former strifeWere not yet still’d, “And you, perhaps, were rightWith Edith, too,” he said; “at least, were safe.Hold still to truth. It yet may save us both.”
But Elbert, found, the whole sweet truth confess’d,
With all his love for her so satisfied,
And all the sacrifice for me so clear,
I honor’d God the more from this, the hour
I found His honor so encased in man.
“Nay, thank me not,” he said. “You brought me her.
Nor did I dream I loved her, ere I sought
Your cause to plead; and, aim’d for what it wills,
My will is wilful. There, you know the whole.”
And soon, as if he fear’d our former strife
Were not yet still’d, “And you, perhaps, were right
With Edith, too,” he said; “at least, were safe.
Hold still to truth. It yet may save us both.”
And then I learn’d—as many a friend has learn’d—Who with them strove my joy for them to share,How much more joy was theirs, when theirs alone.But this could scarcely turn my thought asideFrom self, left lonelier now than e’er before.I strove to drown my grief in work. The workWas but a worm’s that eats from day to dayThe morrow’s bed, at morning dragging onA soulless trunk, through troubles void of hope.My soul to startled sighs was roused aloneWhen Edith cross’d my vision. Then my mood,As gloom would gather round again, would grieveTo think, in sorting souls, fate bungled so,And let our traits be judged of by our trades,—The dusty imprint of the things we touch.“As well,” cried I, “to judge of winds of heaven,By bogs they brush, or fogs they bear away!We two that so could trust each other’s hearts,Why should we not join hearts, and leave to themThe hands? If wiser than the world we were,Why should we act, forsooth, in worldly ways?What need that all should don the uniformThat fits men for the social march of fools?What need?—Ah me,” I thought, “all need, indeed,If one wish influence in the world or church.—Or church!—Must it then crucify the soulTo save appearances? the body? form?The Christ gave up all these to save the soul.’Tis treason when His churches join the world,And courting smiles from bigotry appeased,And grinning hell that holds the whole its own,Preach up the crucifixion of the soulTo save the body, save the outward form.A church is His no more, whose rites or creedsKeep souls untrue to truth within that showsGod’s tempering there, the touch that makes man man.”
And then I learn’d—as many a friend has learn’d—Who with them strove my joy for them to share,How much more joy was theirs, when theirs alone.But this could scarcely turn my thought asideFrom self, left lonelier now than e’er before.I strove to drown my grief in work. The workWas but a worm’s that eats from day to dayThe morrow’s bed, at morning dragging onA soulless trunk, through troubles void of hope.My soul to startled sighs was roused aloneWhen Edith cross’d my vision. Then my mood,As gloom would gather round again, would grieveTo think, in sorting souls, fate bungled so,And let our traits be judged of by our trades,—The dusty imprint of the things we touch.“As well,” cried I, “to judge of winds of heaven,By bogs they brush, or fogs they bear away!We two that so could trust each other’s hearts,Why should we not join hearts, and leave to themThe hands? If wiser than the world we were,Why should we act, forsooth, in worldly ways?What need that all should don the uniformThat fits men for the social march of fools?What need?—Ah me,” I thought, “all need, indeed,If one wish influence in the world or church.—Or church!—Must it then crucify the soulTo save appearances? the body? form?The Christ gave up all these to save the soul.’Tis treason when His churches join the world,And courting smiles from bigotry appeased,And grinning hell that holds the whole its own,Preach up the crucifixion of the soulTo save the body, save the outward form.A church is His no more, whose rites or creedsKeep souls untrue to truth within that showsGod’s tempering there, the touch that makes man man.”
And then I learn’d—as many a friend has learn’d—Who with them strove my joy for them to share,How much more joy was theirs, when theirs alone.But this could scarcely turn my thought asideFrom self, left lonelier now than e’er before.I strove to drown my grief in work. The workWas but a worm’s that eats from day to dayThe morrow’s bed, at morning dragging onA soulless trunk, through troubles void of hope.
And then I learn’d—as many a friend has learn’d—
Who with them strove my joy for them to share,
How much more joy was theirs, when theirs alone.
But this could scarcely turn my thought aside
From self, left lonelier now than e’er before.
I strove to drown my grief in work. The work
Was but a worm’s that eats from day to day
The morrow’s bed, at morning dragging on
A soulless trunk, through troubles void of hope.
My soul to startled sighs was roused aloneWhen Edith cross’d my vision. Then my mood,As gloom would gather round again, would grieveTo think, in sorting souls, fate bungled so,And let our traits be judged of by our trades,—The dusty imprint of the things we touch.“As well,” cried I, “to judge of winds of heaven,By bogs they brush, or fogs they bear away!We two that so could trust each other’s hearts,Why should we not join hearts, and leave to themThe hands? If wiser than the world we were,Why should we act, forsooth, in worldly ways?What need that all should don the uniformThat fits men for the social march of fools?What need?—Ah me,” I thought, “all need, indeed,If one wish influence in the world or church.—Or church!—Must it then crucify the soulTo save appearances? the body? form?The Christ gave up all these to save the soul.’Tis treason when His churches join the world,And courting smiles from bigotry appeased,And grinning hell that holds the whole its own,Preach up the crucifixion of the soulTo save the body, save the outward form.A church is His no more, whose rites or creedsKeep souls untrue to truth within that showsGod’s tempering there, the touch that makes man man.”
My soul to startled sighs was roused alone
When Edith cross’d my vision. Then my mood,
As gloom would gather round again, would grieve
To think, in sorting souls, fate bungled so,
And let our traits be judged of by our trades,—
The dusty imprint of the things we touch.
“As well,” cried I, “to judge of winds of heaven,
By bogs they brush, or fogs they bear away!
We two that so could trust each other’s hearts,
Why should we not join hearts, and leave to them
The hands? If wiser than the world we were,
Why should we act, forsooth, in worldly ways?
What need that all should don the uniform
That fits men for the social march of fools?
What need?—Ah me,” I thought, “all need, indeed,
If one wish influence in the world or church.—
Or church!—Must it then crucify the soul
To save appearances? the body? form?
The Christ gave up all these to save the soul.
’Tis treason when His churches join the world,
And courting smiles from bigotry appeased,
And grinning hell that holds the whole its own,
Preach up the crucifixion of the soul
To save the body, save the outward form.
A church is His no more, whose rites or creeds
Keep souls untrue to truth within that shows
God’s tempering there, the touch that makes man man.”