RESERVE.
I hear you praiseWhat you are pleased to call unsounded depthsOf character; a nature that the worldWould call reserved; tempting you while it hides—Or you suspect it hides—a richer wealthDeep in some far recesses of the soul.As if, indeed, you should approve the hostWho with most admirable courtesyShould throw wide open to your curious gazeHis drawing-room, his green-house and his hall;Yet should not hesitate to let you seeCertain close-bolted doors of hardest oak,Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here,Alas! I cannot let you enter.”YouAt once are filled with curiosityTo listen at the keyhole.So am I;Yet much I doubt if after all those deepRecesses of the soul are filled with aughtBut emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang;The master of the house can scarce himselfFeel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts;Although he take an honorable pride,Leaning at ease in comfortable chair,To know there are some chambers in his soulUnentered even by himself.But himI call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a wellOf frank sincerity; whose smiling lips,Curving with hospitable gayety,Bid you most welcome to his house and home;Throwing wide open to your curious gazeEach nook and corner; leaving you at easeTo wander where you will; and if at timesYou half suspect some hidden sweet retreatWhere hyacinths are blossoming unseen,’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doorsWhisper of secrets you would fain explore;But that the tapestries upon the wallSo lightly hang, that swaying to and fro,They half betray a fragrance from within.You never once suspect that secret doorsAre sliding in the panels underneath;But when you go, the master of the houseLifts easily the soft and shining silk,To find there sacred silence from you all.’Tis easierTo read the secrets of a dark, deep poolThat coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,”With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky,Than catch the meaning of a silver spring,Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heartDelicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.
I hear you praiseWhat you are pleased to call unsounded depthsOf character; a nature that the worldWould call reserved; tempting you while it hides—Or you suspect it hides—a richer wealthDeep in some far recesses of the soul.As if, indeed, you should approve the hostWho with most admirable courtesyShould throw wide open to your curious gazeHis drawing-room, his green-house and his hall;Yet should not hesitate to let you seeCertain close-bolted doors of hardest oak,Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here,Alas! I cannot let you enter.”YouAt once are filled with curiosityTo listen at the keyhole.So am I;Yet much I doubt if after all those deepRecesses of the soul are filled with aughtBut emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang;The master of the house can scarce himselfFeel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts;Although he take an honorable pride,Leaning at ease in comfortable chair,To know there are some chambers in his soulUnentered even by himself.But himI call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a wellOf frank sincerity; whose smiling lips,Curving with hospitable gayety,Bid you most welcome to his house and home;Throwing wide open to your curious gazeEach nook and corner; leaving you at easeTo wander where you will; and if at timesYou half suspect some hidden sweet retreatWhere hyacinths are blossoming unseen,’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doorsWhisper of secrets you would fain explore;But that the tapestries upon the wallSo lightly hang, that swaying to and fro,They half betray a fragrance from within.You never once suspect that secret doorsAre sliding in the panels underneath;But when you go, the master of the houseLifts easily the soft and shining silk,To find there sacred silence from you all.’Tis easierTo read the secrets of a dark, deep poolThat coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,”With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky,Than catch the meaning of a silver spring,Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heartDelicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.
I hear you praiseWhat you are pleased to call unsounded depthsOf character; a nature that the worldWould call reserved; tempting you while it hides—Or you suspect it hides—a richer wealthDeep in some far recesses of the soul.As if, indeed, you should approve the hostWho with most admirable courtesyShould throw wide open to your curious gazeHis drawing-room, his green-house and his hall;Yet should not hesitate to let you seeCertain close-bolted doors of hardest oak,Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here,Alas! I cannot let you enter.”YouAt once are filled with curiosityTo listen at the keyhole.So am I;Yet much I doubt if after all those deepRecesses of the soul are filled with aughtBut emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang;The master of the house can scarce himselfFeel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts;Although he take an honorable pride,Leaning at ease in comfortable chair,To know there are some chambers in his soulUnentered even by himself.But himI call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a wellOf frank sincerity; whose smiling lips,Curving with hospitable gayety,Bid you most welcome to his house and home;Throwing wide open to your curious gazeEach nook and corner; leaving you at easeTo wander where you will; and if at timesYou half suspect some hidden sweet retreatWhere hyacinths are blossoming unseen,’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doorsWhisper of secrets you would fain explore;But that the tapestries upon the wallSo lightly hang, that swaying to and fro,They half betray a fragrance from within.You never once suspect that secret doorsAre sliding in the panels underneath;But when you go, the master of the houseLifts easily the soft and shining silk,To find there sacred silence from you all.’Tis easierTo read the secrets of a dark, deep poolThat coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,”With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky,Than catch the meaning of a silver spring,Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heartDelicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.
I hear you praise
What you are pleased to call unsounded depths
Of character; a nature that the world
Would call reserved; tempting you while it hides—
Or you suspect it hides—a richer wealth
Deep in some far recesses of the soul.
As if, indeed, you should approve the host
Who with most admirable courtesy
Should throw wide open to your curious gaze
His drawing-room, his green-house and his hall;
Yet should not hesitate to let you see
Certain close-bolted doors of hardest oak,
Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here,
Alas! I cannot let you enter.”
You
At once are filled with curiosity
To listen at the keyhole.
So am I;
Yet much I doubt if after all those deep
Recesses of the soul are filled with aught
But emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang;
The master of the house can scarce himself
Feel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts;
Although he take an honorable pride,
Leaning at ease in comfortable chair,
To know there are some chambers in his soul
Unentered even by himself.
But him
I call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a well
Of frank sincerity; whose smiling lips,
Curving with hospitable gayety,
Bid you most welcome to his house and home;
Throwing wide open to your curious gaze
Each nook and corner; leaving you at ease
To wander where you will; and if at times
You half suspect some hidden sweet retreat
Where hyacinths are blossoming unseen,
’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doors
Whisper of secrets you would fain explore;
But that the tapestries upon the wall
So lightly hang, that swaying to and fro,
They half betray a fragrance from within.
You never once suspect that secret doors
Are sliding in the panels underneath;
But when you go, the master of the house
Lifts easily the soft and shining silk,
To find there sacred silence from you all.
’Tis easier
To read the secrets of a dark, deep pool
That coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,”
With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky,
Than catch the meaning of a silver spring,
Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heart
Delicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.