Chapter 20

I swore it should not be, it could not be;No life could so be cleansed,—by wringing thenceThe blood that warms the heart; no face made pureBy turning pale the blush of beauty castBy shadows where sweet love goes in and out.Love, love should never be a slave, but free.—“Come, Edith!”—Then I question’d, Would she come?—Nay, not to my life. Mine must go to hers.But this, mine could not,—could do nothing there;—And would not!—Whence then sprang my call to her?—If not from reason, from my wish, forsooth.—My wish for what?—for her?—as now she was?—Not so; but rather might be.—Whence then sprangThis ‘might be’?—whence, alas, but from myself,As I kept moulding it within my soul?Why rail’d I, then, against the church and world?—Not these alone, but I would have her changed.These all but echoed back my own soul’s voice;And yet, augmented by the voice of all,In heeding them, I heeded not myself,But something greater, grander than myself.For if a single man may image God,Then many men who join their partial giftsAnd parted wisdom,—till the whole becomeNot merely human but humanity’s,—May watch our ways and keep them circumspectWith eyes that often wellnigh stand for HisWho still more fully in mankind than manRules over truth in each through truth in all.Why term me slave, then, when I serve my kind?—Through serving it, I best may serve, as well,My godlier self!—Let general thought take shape;What better can incarnate sovereignty?What stir to nobler dreams or grander deeds?The soul in reverence may kneel to it,Yield all to it.—So may my neighbors reign,And I may be their slave, yet own myself;And deify, while I defy my pride!

I swore it should not be, it could not be;

No life could so be cleansed,—by wringing thence

The blood that warms the heart; no face made pure

By turning pale the blush of beauty cast

By shadows where sweet love goes in and out.

Love, love should never be a slave, but free.—

“Come, Edith!”—Then I question’d, Would she come?—

Nay, not to my life. Mine must go to hers.

But this, mine could not,—could do nothing there;—

And would not!—Whence then sprang my call to her?—

If not from reason, from my wish, forsooth.—

My wish for what?—for her?—as now she was?—

Not so; but rather might be.—Whence then sprang

This ‘might be’?—whence, alas, but from myself,

As I kept moulding it within my soul?

Why rail’d I, then, against the church and world?—

Not these alone, but I would have her changed.

These all but echoed back my own soul’s voice;

And yet, augmented by the voice of all,

In heeding them, I heeded not myself,

But something greater, grander than myself.

For if a single man may image God,

Then many men who join their partial gifts

And parted wisdom,—till the whole become

Not merely human but humanity’s,—

May watch our ways and keep them circumspect

With eyes that often wellnigh stand for His

Who still more fully in mankind than man

Rules over truth in each through truth in all.

Why term me slave, then, when I serve my kind?—

Through serving it, I best may serve, as well,

My godlier self!—Let general thought take shape;

What better can incarnate sovereignty?

What stir to nobler dreams or grander deeds?

The soul in reverence may kneel to it,

Yield all to it.—So may my neighbors reign,

And I may be their slave, yet own myself;

And deify, while I defy my pride!

A new conversion, say you?—call it so.The truth converts one oft, if he be true.The true man loves his own, and fights for it;And, since his own is little and God’s is large,He often fights to fall. Yet ranks on highNow throng with heroes, whose too slender bladesWere wielded but for slender causes once;Nor sheathed, ere flying shatter’d from their grasp,Till truth they fought had proven too strong for them.Then, when they knew themselves, and knew the truth,And knew its mercy too, they loved the truth,And came to be its champions, evermore.So now with me: rebellious though I was,Rebellion wrought my rescue. Truth triumphantEnlisted duty for a loyaltyThat made all life seem lordlike. Work began.Thank God, we all have heads above our hearts;And, if we let them reason with us well,They rule us for our best.

A new conversion, say you?—call it so.

The truth converts one oft, if he be true.

The true man loves his own, and fights for it;

And, since his own is little and God’s is large,

He often fights to fall. Yet ranks on high

Now throng with heroes, whose too slender blades

Were wielded but for slender causes once;

Nor sheathed, ere flying shatter’d from their grasp,

Till truth they fought had proven too strong for them.

Then, when they knew themselves, and knew the truth,

And knew its mercy too, they loved the truth,

And came to be its champions, evermore.

So now with me: rebellious though I was,

Rebellion wrought my rescue. Truth triumphant

Enlisted duty for a loyalty

That made all life seem lordlike. Work began.

Thank God, we all have heads above our hearts;

And, if we let them reason with us well,

They rule us for our best.

What Elbert wish’d,When first I cross’d the sea, was more than wrought.I brought back not alone what books could give,But in myself a sense of others’ wants,—For in my heart a wondrous wealth of love;Ay, wealth it was; though, like the ore in mines,It only proved that that which lived had died.What though my life, complete with her alone,Seem’d always rent? a weight of broken quartzThat only gleam’d where it had fractur’d been?That weight was wealth that sparkled back to greetEach glance of sunshine.Thus I found that loveAt times may prove a treasure even dead,If dead enough in spirits yet alive.Mine, thwarted so, had made me more the manThat Elbert wish’d,—a man for all mankind;—No special pleader for a special classWhose grasping greed crowds out the general good;—But one who pleads for all fair rights for all.Nor would I bide content with utter’d words.Too often, these, when widest welcomed, wakeBut echoes brief as breath from which they spring.I craved the mission less of roaring wavesThan of the rare wrought shells that, evermore,When storms are gone, suggest their living presence.

What Elbert wish’d,

When first I cross’d the sea, was more than wrought.

I brought back not alone what books could give,

But in myself a sense of others’ wants,—

For in my heart a wondrous wealth of love;

Ay, wealth it was; though, like the ore in mines,

It only proved that that which lived had died.

What though my life, complete with her alone,

Seem’d always rent? a weight of broken quartz

That only gleam’d where it had fractur’d been?

That weight was wealth that sparkled back to greet

Each glance of sunshine.

Thus I found that love

At times may prove a treasure even dead,

If dead enough in spirits yet alive.

Mine, thwarted so, had made me more the man

That Elbert wish’d,—a man for all mankind;—

No special pleader for a special class

Whose grasping greed crowds out the general good;—

But one who pleads for all fair rights for all.

Nor would I bide content with utter’d words.

Too often, these, when widest welcomed, wake

But echoes brief as breath from which they spring.

I craved the mission less of roaring waves

Than of the rare wrought shells that, evermore,

When storms are gone, suggest their living presence.

Anon it happen’d that through others’ handsMy tales, pour’d forth to voice my lonelinessIn echoing talk and song, were framed in plays,And then were phrased in music; and, in time,Arose like sighings of a human windAbove a human sea, while, all about,There swept, like surgings of a rhythmic surf,The shifting scenes and singers of the stage.And, chief of all the singers in those throngs,Who best of all could body forth the truthThat most of all had seem’d to be inspiredBy Edith’s influence, while in all I thoughtHer love had ever lured expression on,Was her own self.

Anon it happen’d that through others’ hands

My tales, pour’d forth to voice my loneliness

In echoing talk and song, were framed in plays,

And then were phrased in music; and, in time,

Arose like sighings of a human wind

Above a human sea, while, all about,

There swept, like surgings of a rhythmic surf,

The shifting scenes and singers of the stage.

And, chief of all the singers in those throngs,

Who best of all could body forth the truth

That most of all had seem’d to be inspired

By Edith’s influence, while in all I thought

Her love had ever lured expression on,

Was her own self.

But love outstrips my tale.Erelong, from shores where surged that surf of song,Like gems the ocean casts upon its coast,About me lay a growing store of wealth.And then, with broaden’d means, led on to pushToward broaden’d purposes, I spoke and wrote;And found, anon, while aiding here and thereWhere aid was rare, wide opening to my view,A worthiest mission in this new reformThat seeks to make the server and the servedWalk hand in hand, while wage gives way to share,And, furthering all men to their furthest due,Thus lifts the low and lost.

But love outstrips my tale.

Erelong, from shores where surged that surf of song,

Like gems the ocean casts upon its coast,

About me lay a growing store of wealth.

And then, with broaden’d means, led on to push

Toward broaden’d purposes, I spoke and wrote;

And found, anon, while aiding here and there

Where aid was rare, wide opening to my view,

A worthiest mission in this new reform

That seeks to make the server and the served

Walk hand in hand, while wage gives way to share,

And, furthering all men to their furthest due,

Thus lifts the low and lost.

At last, one day,There came a letter from our bureau’s head,With it, another, sent him, so he wrote,“By some enthusiast, a character—A woman, and a woman too of mind;And yet, withal, who had been strangely led,Through doubtful ways, he thought, toward doubtful ends,Till doubts had wrought reaction,—as when cloudsThat course on clouds, at last, bring lightnings forthThat clear them off. And now her vision, clear’d,Had found within her soul a wish to work,—In new ways truly for a cause like ours,—For us and with us. But I held her note,She dwelt near by me: could I visit her?And give my judgment then?”

At last, one day,

There came a letter from our bureau’s head,

With it, another, sent him, so he wrote,

“By some enthusiast, a character—

A woman, and a woman too of mind;

And yet, withal, who had been strangely led,

Through doubtful ways, he thought, toward doubtful ends,

Till doubts had wrought reaction,—as when clouds

That course on clouds, at last, bring lightnings forth

That clear them off. And now her vision, clear’d,

Had found within her soul a wish to work,—

In new ways truly for a cause like ours,—

For us and with us. But I held her note,

She dwelt near by me: could I visit her?

And give my judgment then?”

This note, so sent,Was—would you guess it?—Edith’s. What she wrote,Weighs love against all liking to this hour.All thrill’d with hope, yet trembling for my fate,I spell’d out all her tale:—“Her sire—his aims—And her fulfilment of them—her success—Earth seem’d a kingdom prostrate at her feet,And she, a queen; alas, but, like a queen,Was doom’d to hold a throne where rivals came,To spy her weakness out, and wrest awayA power that could be kept by power alone.—How sad for woman when her hopes were basedOn practice that must all her heart conceal,That must be conquering ever or be crush’d!At first her love for art had kept her up,—And for success, and for a sister dear,Who shared her earnings, who, while cheer’d the crowds,At last, had died, and left her all alone.And, after that, her soul had loathed applause,Had found her nature so belied, misjudged,Her life the embodiment of hollow sound,And all surroundings echoing back but sound,Chill admiration in the place of love,Her friends but flatterers, and herself unknown.“With this, her world had grown so hard, so parch’d,Without one source affording sympathy—She took no credit to herself for aught;The weakest sigh that could have heaved a breast,A dying breast, had crack’d so dry a crust—She rose, one morn, and swore to free her soul,Let pent-up love in softening currents flowTill something human, ay, and heavenly, too,Were nurtured by the wish from which it sprang.“She could not work now for herself alone;For she had learn’d that all life’s purposesAre held like lenses that a soul may useTo gather in heaven’s light and flash it roundUpon its world illumin’d; or, not so,—If turn’d on self,—to but inflame and dimIts own self-centered vision. So she nowOne only purpose knew,—to pledge her giftsTo those who most might need them; and she came,With all she was or hoped she yet might be,Her gifts of nature and her skill in art,To work for us, whose aims were plann’d so well,To further all men to their furthest goals,And lift the low and lost.”

This note, so sent,

Was—would you guess it?—Edith’s. What she wrote,

Weighs love against all liking to this hour.

All thrill’d with hope, yet trembling for my fate,

I spell’d out all her tale:—“Her sire—his aims—

And her fulfilment of them—her success—

Earth seem’d a kingdom prostrate at her feet,

And she, a queen; alas, but, like a queen,

Was doom’d to hold a throne where rivals came,

To spy her weakness out, and wrest away

A power that could be kept by power alone.—

How sad for woman when her hopes were based

On practice that must all her heart conceal,

That must be conquering ever or be crush’d!

At first her love for art had kept her up,—

And for success, and for a sister dear,

Who shared her earnings, who, while cheer’d the crowds,

At last, had died, and left her all alone.

And, after that, her soul had loathed applause,

Had found her nature so belied, misjudged,

Her life the embodiment of hollow sound,

And all surroundings echoing back but sound,

Chill admiration in the place of love,

Her friends but flatterers, and herself unknown.

“With this, her world had grown so hard, so parch’d,Without one source affording sympathy—She took no credit to herself for aught;The weakest sigh that could have heaved a breast,A dying breast, had crack’d so dry a crust—She rose, one morn, and swore to free her soul,Let pent-up love in softening currents flowTill something human, ay, and heavenly, too,Were nurtured by the wish from which it sprang.

“With this, her world had grown so hard, so parch’d,

Without one source affording sympathy—

She took no credit to herself for aught;

The weakest sigh that could have heaved a breast,

A dying breast, had crack’d so dry a crust—

She rose, one morn, and swore to free her soul,

Let pent-up love in softening currents flow

Till something human, ay, and heavenly, too,

Were nurtured by the wish from which it sprang.

“She could not work now for herself alone;For she had learn’d that all life’s purposesAre held like lenses that a soul may useTo gather in heaven’s light and flash it roundUpon its world illumin’d; or, not so,—If turn’d on self,—to but inflame and dimIts own self-centered vision. So she nowOne only purpose knew,—to pledge her giftsTo those who most might need them; and she came,With all she was or hoped she yet might be,Her gifts of nature and her skill in art,To work for us, whose aims were plann’d so well,To further all men to their furthest goals,And lift the low and lost.”

“She could not work now for herself alone;

For she had learn’d that all life’s purposes

Are held like lenses that a soul may use

To gather in heaven’s light and flash it round

Upon its world illumin’d; or, not so,—

If turn’d on self,—to but inflame and dim

Its own self-centered vision. So she now

One only purpose knew,—to pledge her gifts

To those who most might need them; and she came,

With all she was or hoped she yet might be,

Her gifts of nature and her skill in art,

To work for us, whose aims were plann’d so well,

To further all men to their furthest goals,

And lift the low and lost.”

And then I rode,As fast as trains could take me; and I wrote,Like one intoxicated, from the inn:“The bureau’s agent here abides your wish”;And, signing not my name, awaited thusThe welcome sure to seem more sweet than life.It came. I went.“You?” Edith cried, “and whence?”“From whence?” I said. “Each slightest spark of goodFlies upward, and the heaven returns it whereIt fires the most?—and where were tinder foundLike my heart?”“Why is this?” I heard; “My note—Did it miscarry?—Would you thwart me now—Or, though my gifts could aid them, do they wishNo help from me?—My heart was fix’d on it.”“On my cause,” breathed I. “Did you never thinkThat work with them would make you work with me?”“Why think of that?” she ask’d.—“Enough to knowI sought my own work here.”“Why, Edith, friend,”I answer’d—“Why could not your work be mine?What parts us now? What though, like mine, your soulHad come to look down life’s long dreary vista,And watch yourself alone. Why bide alone?I, I, at least, through all these years have seen—Not you yourself, for that too dear had been!—But I have seen a vision, seeming youWithin the far horizon of my hopes,The sweet mirage before me. Now, at last,I know those misty outlines veil’d the truth;It must have meant that you would yet be found—That we should meet. Heaven surely meant it so.”

And then I rode,

As fast as trains could take me; and I wrote,

Like one intoxicated, from the inn:

“The bureau’s agent here abides your wish”;

And, signing not my name, awaited thus

The welcome sure to seem more sweet than life.

It came. I went.

“You?” Edith cried, “and whence?”“From whence?” I said. “Each slightest spark of goodFlies upward, and the heaven returns it whereIt fires the most?—and where were tinder foundLike my heart?”“Why is this?” I heard; “My note—Did it miscarry?—Would you thwart me now—Or, though my gifts could aid them, do they wishNo help from me?—My heart was fix’d on it.”

“You?” Edith cried, “and whence?”

“From whence?” I said. “Each slightest spark of good

Flies upward, and the heaven returns it where

It fires the most?—and where were tinder found

Like my heart?”

“Why is this?” I heard; “My note—

Did it miscarry?—Would you thwart me now—

Or, though my gifts could aid them, do they wish

No help from me?—My heart was fix’d on it.”

“On my cause,” breathed I. “Did you never thinkThat work with them would make you work with me?”

“On my cause,” breathed I. “Did you never think

That work with them would make you work with me?”

“Why think of that?” she ask’d.—“Enough to knowI sought my own work here.”

“Why think of that?” she ask’d.—“Enough to know

I sought my own work here.”

“Why, Edith, friend,”I answer’d—“Why could not your work be mine?What parts us now? What though, like mine, your soulHad come to look down life’s long dreary vista,And watch yourself alone. Why bide alone?I, I, at least, through all these years have seen—Not you yourself, for that too dear had been!—But I have seen a vision, seeming youWithin the far horizon of my hopes,The sweet mirage before me. Now, at last,I know those misty outlines veil’d the truth;It must have meant that you would yet be found—That we should meet. Heaven surely meant it so.”

“Why, Edith, friend,”

I answer’d—“Why could not your work be mine?

What parts us now? What though, like mine, your soul

Had come to look down life’s long dreary vista,

And watch yourself alone. Why bide alone?

I, I, at least, through all these years have seen—

Not you yourself, for that too dear had been!—

But I have seen a vision, seeming you

Within the far horizon of my hopes,

The sweet mirage before me. Now, at last,

I know those misty outlines veil’d the truth;

It must have meant that you would yet be found—

That we should meet. Heaven surely meant it so.”

Her mien had chang’d; and yet she ask’d again,“But how with Grace? I thought”—“Alas,” I said,“With your dear spirit thron’d above my love,What were I but a traitor, wedding Grace?This heart was yours, your dwelling-place alone.Nay, now I do not come to give it you:It only opens to an owner old.How sacredly I guarded it for you!—A holy place, though there, above the shrine,The niche was empty. Ah, has earth seem’d rude?Some reason was there; surely some there was.We war with Providence, who war with life.We seek to mould our own existence out;But life, best made, is mainly for us made.Each passing circumstance, a tool of heaven,Grates by to smooth some edge of character,And model manhood into better shape.Has nought been wrought with you? Ah, idol mine,You living image of all hope, would God,Love’s niche were fill’d, love’s altar stood complete!”

Her mien had chang’d; and yet she ask’d again,

“But how with Grace? I thought”—

“Alas,” I said,

“With your dear spirit thron’d above my love,

What were I but a traitor, wedding Grace?

This heart was yours, your dwelling-place alone.

Nay, now I do not come to give it you:

It only opens to an owner old.

How sacredly I guarded it for you!—

A holy place, though there, above the shrine,

The niche was empty. Ah, has earth seem’d rude?

Some reason was there; surely some there was.

We war with Providence, who war with life.

We seek to mould our own existence out;

But life, best made, is mainly for us made.

Each passing circumstance, a tool of heaven,

Grates by to smooth some edge of character,

And model manhood into better shape.

Has nought been wrought with you? Ah, idol mine,

You living image of all hope, would God,

Love’s niche were fill’d, love’s altar stood complete!”

Then Edith lean’d her face against her hand,And slowly came the words that seem’d so dear:“It may be, Norman, may—I know—I feel—It must be earth, so roughly handling one,Should round experience for some wise design.Yet this—it cannot be—how can it?—nay—For me you come—and you? your voice I hear?No echo void, oft, oft so sweet in dreams?—Nor now to wake me?—Nay I trust. You may—’Twill stray no more—take back your wanderer.”“My wanderer!” I answer’d, when I could;“Ah Edith, you but wander’d as the lamb;My spotless, worldling-mediator, you!—It wander’d?—yes; it cross’d a threshold chill;A proud cathedral enter’d; there found oneToo pleased with what he had, to gaze outside.To him those arches low seem’d high as heaven;And all the sweet and sunny air without,When strain’d through stain’d and smoke-wreathed window-panes,Gleam’d lurid as were hell. This man spied you:He saw you shun him—leave him. He pursued—Out, past the doorway—and he found God’s worldSo much more broad than walls named after Him!”

Then Edith lean’d her face against her hand,

And slowly came the words that seem’d so dear:

“It may be, Norman, may—I know—I feel—

It must be earth, so roughly handling one,

Should round experience for some wise design.

Yet this—it cannot be—how can it?—nay—

For me you come—and you? your voice I hear?

No echo void, oft, oft so sweet in dreams?—

Nor now to wake me?—Nay I trust. You may—

’Twill stray no more—take back your wanderer.”

“My wanderer!” I answer’d, when I could;“Ah Edith, you but wander’d as the lamb;My spotless, worldling-mediator, you!—It wander’d?—yes; it cross’d a threshold chill;A proud cathedral enter’d; there found oneToo pleased with what he had, to gaze outside.To him those arches low seem’d high as heaven;And all the sweet and sunny air without,When strain’d through stain’d and smoke-wreathed window-panes,Gleam’d lurid as were hell. This man spied you:He saw you shun him—leave him. He pursued—Out, past the doorway—and he found God’s worldSo much more broad than walls named after Him!”

“My wanderer!” I answer’d, when I could;

“Ah Edith, you but wander’d as the lamb;

My spotless, worldling-mediator, you!—

It wander’d?—yes; it cross’d a threshold chill;

A proud cathedral enter’d; there found one

Too pleased with what he had, to gaze outside.

To him those arches low seem’d high as heaven;

And all the sweet and sunny air without,

When strain’d through stain’d and smoke-wreathed window-panes,

Gleam’d lurid as were hell. This man spied you:

He saw you shun him—leave him. He pursued—

Out, past the doorway—and he found God’s world

So much more broad than walls named after Him!”

“And Norman,” said she, “think you, evermore,Recalling you, the worldling could forgetHow walls exclusive could exclude not love?Or, love rejecting, gain from all the world,Though brimm’d with but applause, one draft so sweet?—But then earth held such promise yet, so lured;How could I know that merely sighs there wereCould thrill me more than all its thunders could?Ah, did I love you then, so loves he heavenWho has not courage yet to leave the world.I might have left it never; but, you know,That sister mine—At last, life meant but this,—To envy that cold tomb, all night, all day,That held her only.—Norman, pardon me:Such woe, such loneliness,—ah, strange was itThat oft then I recall’d your form, your words?And when I render’d forth upon the stageScenes you had visioned, phrases you had fram’d,That then I came to do as you would do,And think as you would think?—or that my tongueShould linger o’er your language, as o’er sweetsRe-tasted still again?—or that, anon,Those accents ardent with your own dear aims,Should fire mine own to ardor?—or that thenMy soul should flash forth light that flamed within,And tracing far the rays that sped from it,Should find here”—“One to help you, friend?” I asked—“Then let us both thank heaven that made us weak.So may a mortal pair bide, each to each,Both priest and partner; like the church, their home;For what are churches here but chosen courtsOf One pure Spirit, moving all to love?And, think you, writ or vestment, art or arch,Can image Him, or His domain unbound?Nay, trust my word, we worship Him the best,When two or three together, loving truthAnd one another, thus repeat, once more,An incarnation, imitating Christ”

“And Norman,” said she, “think you, evermore,

Recalling you, the worldling could forget

How walls exclusive could exclude not love?

Or, love rejecting, gain from all the world,

Though brimm’d with but applause, one draft so sweet?—

But then earth held such promise yet, so lured;

How could I know that merely sighs there were

Could thrill me more than all its thunders could?

Ah, did I love you then, so loves he heaven

Who has not courage yet to leave the world.

I might have left it never; but, you know,

That sister mine—At last, life meant but this,—

To envy that cold tomb, all night, all day,

That held her only.—Norman, pardon me:

Such woe, such loneliness,—ah, strange was it

That oft then I recall’d your form, your words?

And when I render’d forth upon the stage

Scenes you had visioned, phrases you had fram’d,

That then I came to do as you would do,

And think as you would think?—or that my tongue

Should linger o’er your language, as o’er sweets

Re-tasted still again?—or that, anon,

Those accents ardent with your own dear aims,

Should fire mine own to ardor?—or that then

My soul should flash forth light that flamed within,

And tracing far the rays that sped from it,

Should find here”—

“One to help you, friend?” I asked—“Then let us both thank heaven that made us weak.So may a mortal pair bide, each to each,Both priest and partner; like the church, their home;For what are churches here but chosen courtsOf One pure Spirit, moving all to love?And, think you, writ or vestment, art or arch,Can image Him, or His domain unbound?Nay, trust my word, we worship Him the best,When two or three together, loving truthAnd one another, thus repeat, once more,An incarnation, imitating Christ”

“One to help you, friend?” I asked—

“Then let us both thank heaven that made us weak.

So may a mortal pair bide, each to each,

Both priest and partner; like the church, their home;

For what are churches here but chosen courts

Of One pure Spirit, moving all to love?

And, think you, writ or vestment, art or arch,

Can image Him, or His domain unbound?

Nay, trust my word, we worship Him the best,

When two or three together, loving truth

And one another, thus repeat, once more,

An incarnation, imitating Christ”

“I catch it, Norman,” cried she, “the ideal!Henceforth our aim be this,—the art of life.I saw it not before: the stage of spiritSo much more broad is than the stage of sense!Comes on the soul now, actor, all divine,At play no longer; nay, but shadowing forthA love complete that personates a God!And what love is complete that walks alone?”“None,” answer’d I. “In true love, hand in hand,Each leads his like. For this the whole world waits.It waits for love,—why say not love like ours?When souls touch souls, they touch the springs of life;For them the veils of sense are drawn aside,Are burn’d away in radiance divine,The while their spirit’s contact starts afreshThe electric flash that scores new glory here,And lights the lines of being back to God.Then, with their whole existences renew’d,Far up these lines, the souls that thus commune,Discern anon that sacred home on high,Where boundless rest is blest by boundless loveAnd dreams the dreams of bounty absolute.—They find that home, whence issue floods of light,Which, flowing forth from white mysterious heights,Flame down and flash and burst anon in sparksThat star the dark through all life’s firmament;—They find that home, whence whirl the cycles wideWhere all the wastes of nature fuse and form,And all the things that thought can touch take shape,Until the restless wheels of matter, roll’dThrough roadways worn to waste by speeding years,At last in fatal friction fire themselves,And light returns to light from whence it sprang.Through all, where souls commune with central love,They stay secure, awaiting birth or death;The Spring that starts the blossom blown to fall,Or Fall that drops the seed that springs afresh.They watch nor fear whatever change evolve,—The splendor grand of epochs borne to waste,The ruin wild of times that end in law,The monarch mail’d whose lustre dims his folk,The people’s guns whose echoes hush their king.What though dark clouds loom up and storms descend?True faith would not bemoan the forms they wreck;For forms if true are formulas of loveThat still is ardent to consume them all.Though lightnings thunder till they crack the sky,What unroofs rage leaves heaven to dome our peace.The more convulsion shakes and fire consumes,The more of love and light may both set free;The earlier may they end these earthly daysThat fret our lives with flickerings vague belowOf steadfast light in endless day above;The earlier may the power of hate give way,And good awake, and every path be bright,While hope of glory gilds the gloom on high.We too—come, Edith. Christ will go with us;And by and by the glory so shall flameHeaven cannot hold the halo!—Edith, come;We join the plans above.”

“I catch it, Norman,” cried she, “the ideal!

Henceforth our aim be this,—the art of life.

I saw it not before: the stage of spirit

So much more broad is than the stage of sense!

Comes on the soul now, actor, all divine,

At play no longer; nay, but shadowing forth

A love complete that personates a God!

And what love is complete that walks alone?”

“None,” answer’d I. “In true love, hand in hand,Each leads his like. For this the whole world waits.It waits for love,—why say not love like ours?When souls touch souls, they touch the springs of life;For them the veils of sense are drawn aside,Are burn’d away in radiance divine,The while their spirit’s contact starts afreshThe electric flash that scores new glory here,And lights the lines of being back to God.Then, with their whole existences renew’d,Far up these lines, the souls that thus commune,Discern anon that sacred home on high,Where boundless rest is blest by boundless loveAnd dreams the dreams of bounty absolute.—They find that home, whence issue floods of light,Which, flowing forth from white mysterious heights,Flame down and flash and burst anon in sparksThat star the dark through all life’s firmament;—They find that home, whence whirl the cycles wideWhere all the wastes of nature fuse and form,And all the things that thought can touch take shape,Until the restless wheels of matter, roll’dThrough roadways worn to waste by speeding years,At last in fatal friction fire themselves,And light returns to light from whence it sprang.Through all, where souls commune with central love,They stay secure, awaiting birth or death;The Spring that starts the blossom blown to fall,Or Fall that drops the seed that springs afresh.They watch nor fear whatever change evolve,—The splendor grand of epochs borne to waste,The ruin wild of times that end in law,The monarch mail’d whose lustre dims his folk,The people’s guns whose echoes hush their king.What though dark clouds loom up and storms descend?True faith would not bemoan the forms they wreck;For forms if true are formulas of loveThat still is ardent to consume them all.Though lightnings thunder till they crack the sky,What unroofs rage leaves heaven to dome our peace.The more convulsion shakes and fire consumes,The more of love and light may both set free;The earlier may they end these earthly daysThat fret our lives with flickerings vague belowOf steadfast light in endless day above;The earlier may the power of hate give way,And good awake, and every path be bright,While hope of glory gilds the gloom on high.We too—come, Edith. Christ will go with us;And by and by the glory so shall flameHeaven cannot hold the halo!—Edith, come;We join the plans above.”

“None,” answer’d I. “In true love, hand in hand,

Each leads his like. For this the whole world waits.

It waits for love,—why say not love like ours?

When souls touch souls, they touch the springs of life;

For them the veils of sense are drawn aside,

Are burn’d away in radiance divine,

The while their spirit’s contact starts afresh

The electric flash that scores new glory here,

And lights the lines of being back to God.

Then, with their whole existences renew’d,

Far up these lines, the souls that thus commune,

Discern anon that sacred home on high,

Where boundless rest is blest by boundless love

And dreams the dreams of bounty absolute.—

They find that home, whence issue floods of light,

Which, flowing forth from white mysterious heights,

Flame down and flash and burst anon in sparks

That star the dark through all life’s firmament;—

They find that home, whence whirl the cycles wide

Where all the wastes of nature fuse and form,

And all the things that thought can touch take shape,

Until the restless wheels of matter, roll’d

Through roadways worn to waste by speeding years,

At last in fatal friction fire themselves,

And light returns to light from whence it sprang.

Through all, where souls commune with central love,

They stay secure, awaiting birth or death;

The Spring that starts the blossom blown to fall,

Or Fall that drops the seed that springs afresh.

They watch nor fear whatever change evolve,—

The splendor grand of epochs borne to waste,

The ruin wild of times that end in law,

The monarch mail’d whose lustre dims his folk,

The people’s guns whose echoes hush their king.

What though dark clouds loom up and storms descend?

True faith would not bemoan the forms they wreck;

For forms if true are formulas of love

That still is ardent to consume them all.

Though lightnings thunder till they crack the sky,

What unroofs rage leaves heaven to dome our peace.

The more convulsion shakes and fire consumes,

The more of love and light may both set free;

The earlier may they end these earthly days

That fret our lives with flickerings vague below

Of steadfast light in endless day above;

The earlier may the power of hate give way,

And good awake, and every path be bright,

While hope of glory gilds the gloom on high.

We too—come, Edith. Christ will go with us;

And by and by the glory so shall flame

Heaven cannot hold the halo!—Edith, come;

We join the plans above.”

But hold—I rave—I know, I know—no matter, so would you.—But find your soul’s ideal, and you would find,If common-sense be reason, you would rave,Till you forgot that common-sense could be—Though I forget it not. My tale is told.Why talk I more? I know one household nowAll radiant through its mistress! Where she dwellsA sweet content pervades the very air,And genial sympathy smiles on to makeEach whole long year one summer of delight.

But hold—I rave—

I know, I know—no matter, so would you.—

But find your soul’s ideal, and you would find,

If common-sense be reason, you would rave,

Till you forgot that common-sense could be—

Though I forget it not. My tale is told.

Why talk I more? I know one household now

All radiant through its mistress! Where she dwells

A sweet content pervades the very air,

And genial sympathy smiles on to make

Each whole long year one summer of delight.

Back to Index Next