Chapter VIII

A man might hide beneath two hands
Held close and closer side by side
This ivory portrait as it stands,
With what it owns of grace or pride:

But all the memories it imparts
Of Sylvia--all these, we know,
Could ne’er be hidden in two hearts,
And who, ah, who would wish them so?

BETSINDA

I saw thee in thy little shift,
And why I grieved I knew not then;
How should I know
Thou wert to go,
Yea, even so,
After a while, among the stars again?

And when I viewed thee girded thus,
With coronal of shining hair,
Did I surmise,
Such is the guise,
In Paradise,
Of new souls choosing garlands they shall wear?

I saw thee in thy little shift;
How guessed I that such vesture white
Was sign to tell,
And passing well,
Like a clear bell,
Of travel-garment, and of lonely flight?

Yet after I beheld thee, too,
My soul had sorrow all that day;
All night I dreamed,
Weeping, meseemed;
Something I deemed
Most beautiful had made me weep and pray.

I saw thee in thy little shift;
Adown my cheek ran rain of tears;
“The old, old pain,”
My heart was fain
So to explain:
My heart knew not, ’twas pain of coming years.

TO SYLVIA’S EYES

Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes,
Pure as God’s mercies glowing,
That shine on me from Paradise.

So deep, like seas! So blue, like skies!
With mirth and love o’erflowing!
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes.

And oh, their look of bright surprise,
Like look of stars, fresh-growing,
That shine on me from Paradise!

Fringed pools, holding nor lures nor lies,
Yet wistful with foreknowing;
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes.

Fair eyelids fall; fair Springtime flies;
And fairer stars are showing,
That shine on me from Paradise.

O fairer stars, in angel-wise
Ye watch me, coming, going:
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes,
That shine on me from Paradise!

THE FAIRER FLOWER

Would I knew the fairer flower--
Rose or lily, lily or rose,
Here to hold in my heart’s bower!

Rose-Marie has world-old power;
Sovranly her bright blush shows:
Would I knew the fairer flower!

Sylvia’s lily look would shower
All my soul with grace that grows,
Here to hold in my heart’s bower:

Each most blest! In each, her dower
Of loveliness or gleams or glows:
Would I knew the fairer flower--

Ah, but never shall my tower
Watch that fairer bloom unclose,
Here to hold in my heart’s bower!

Clouds shall lift, as clouds shall lower;
I chose not--the heavens chose.
Would I knew the fairer flower
Here to hold in my heart’s bower!

VISION OF CHILDHOOD

I saw God in His sky,
I spoke with Him;
The shape was beautiful, and very great and dim:
I saw God in His sky,
I spoke with Him;
There was no passer-by.

And I had no more fear,
He bent His head,
He listened tenderly unto the prayer I said:
And I had no more fear,
He bent His head,
That I might know Him near.

Oh, it was long ago,
And I was small;
I have not, every day, always remembered all:
Oh, it was long ago,
And I was small;
Nor more could ever know.

THEY THAT MOURN

Sisters twain are Grief and Bliss:
“Blessed are they that mourn,” ’twas said,
And, “For they shall be comforted:”
Yet blessed not alone for this!

But oh, enriched by gift of Grief,
By treasure out of Sorrow’s store,
They shall distil from Pain’s long lore
Balm for another’s sweet relief.

By falling waters, roses stray;
Thou, whose heart’s garden knoweth rue,
Shalt find therein, in season due,
The perfect rose to give away.

OF LITTLE THINGS

They are little, but oh, they are near,
These things unforgotten and dear,
Now writ, for remembering here:

The daily and dutiful grace
Of a delicate flower face,
And the dimple, its hiding-place;

A tress and a glance and a glove,
A lilting of laughter and love,
And the silvery wing of a dove;

Yet these have their reason and rhyme
No less than the bluebird’s song,
Though frail as a bluebell’s chime,
Once heard as we happened along.

Things frail as a bluebell’s chime--
How often they last a long time--

For we lay them away on high shelves
That the great world may seldom behold,
And we leave still a part of ourselves
With our love in each white, white fold.

There is nothing of large intent,
Except as you know what is meant;
The way that an eyebrow went,

With a merry or pensive air,
And the light that played over her hair
As she stood one day by your chair;

And writ for remembering here,
These things unforgotten and dear;
They are little, but oh, they are near!

THE BLUE MANTLE

O little lonely cavalier,
I met thee in the deepening day,
Riding the road where yesteryear
Thou and thy namesake oft would stray.

Thy mantle blue wore pensive fold;
There lacked but gleam of helm and lance
To bid mine eyes in thee behold
Again the sainted Maid of France:

For thine was look of those who face
An unexpected destiny;
Around thee in that woodland place
Lay aureole of reverie.

And steadfastly thy pony kept
The russet path ’neath russet boughs,
Nor fretted when the squirrel swept
Aloft his plume of high carouse.

Almost, almost I wondered then
If this were tapestry, or dream,
Or if I walked the ways of men,
And verily by woodland stream.

O rider, thou who rid’st beside
The autumn hush, thou art young to know
What stillness comes when one shall ride
Where two were lately wont to go.

The Voices that thy spirit heard
Borne on the autumn’s tender breeze
Were ne’er the notes of autumn bird
Revisiting past revelries.

The heart’s quick dew was in thine eyes
That overflowed ere thou couldst speak;
Nor shall those holy drops chastise
The rose of morning from thy cheek:

But rather shall thy maiden look
Henceforth a deeper radiance wear,
As if it more immediate took
Its sweetness, from a purer air;

As if with grief thou couldst not dwell
All unacquainted as before,
As if Hope’s rose-wreath held as well
Some lovely leaf from Memory’s lore.

And they who dream of voices flown,
And they who dwell with Voices near,
Shall nevermore ride all alone,
Though solitary, cavalier!

ENVOY

SYLVAN VOICES

In robes of laughter and of song,
In duffle gray of daily word,
Or borne on radiant plumes along,
The Sylvan Voices still are heard.

You hear them when the throstles sing,
And when the shimmering rain-drops dance
By flowery marges of your spring,
To catch the Naiad’s captive glance.

I hear them in the Clara-call,
The Sylvia-note, the Ellen-name,
When ringing echoes rise and fall,
And Youth rides lilting, “Hey for hame!”

Sometimes you know not they are near,
Until your sudden tear shall start,
To list them, quiring silver-clear
Within the lily’s golden heart.

Perchance, fleetfoot, at pearl of dawn
They leave a dimple in the grass,
A little laughter on the lawn;
Then light as thistledown, they pass.

They gather in cathedral aisle
To kneel with you upon the stones;
They whisper with your prayers awhile,
Then soar aloft in organ-tones.

To-day they sing dear dooryard things--
The branch, the bird, the honeybee;
To-morrow sees them spread their wings
August, in God’s immensity:

And oh, however far they fly,
The Voices come--they never fail--
When the rapt rainbow rides the sky
Past Dingleton, past Maryvale!

CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE