Chapter I

There are two farms which, smiling in the sun, Adjoin each other, as I trust, some day Two hearts will join, who from their bounty live. One farm is John Bernard's, and one is mine; And she, the one pearl woman in my eyes, Is his sweet daughter, gentle Grace Bernard.

Three years ago, my father followed her Who gave me birth home to his narrow house. I was at college when death's summons came, And all the grief fell on me, crushing me; And all my heart cried out in bitterness, Moaning to cease with its wet language,--tears. Then with my prospects of professional life Thwarted and void, I came back to the farm-- I came back to the love of Grace Bernard. She was the dove that on the flood of grief Brought to my window there love's olive spray. From college to the farm-house where I dwelt I took my books, friends who are never cold, With fragile instruments of chemistry, And cabinets of mineral and rock With limestone encrinites; asterias Old as the mountains, or the sea's white lash Wherewith he smites the shoulders of the shore; Tarentula and scarabee I brought, And, too, I brought my diamond microscope Which magnifies a pin's head to a man's, And gives me sights in water and in air The naturalists have not yet touched upon. Over my fields I wander frequently, Breaking the past's upturned face of shelving rocks For special specimens to fill my home; But find my footsteps always thither tend, Toward the farm-house of the other farm, Where Grace Bernard is noontime and delight.

When first I took the hand of her I love, And held it only as a stranger might, Some unseen mentor whispered in my ear, _You twain are strands which Destiny shall braid_, And then a numb misgiving, not explained, Settled with chilly dampness on my heart. My Grace Bernard in Grace was not misnamed, There was a soft Madonna look about her eyes; The long thick lash, the drooping-petal lid, Wrought on her face all love and tenderness. Her lips were of that deep intensest red The cherry, red rose, and columbine wear. Her golden hair was sunshine changed to silk, Which fell below her waist, and was a thing Perhaps some lover, braver far than I, Might dare to mesh his hands in, or to kiss.