Chapter LV

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 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.”

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 waive
The truth whereto was anchor’d all my soul.”