Chapter III

This barbaric capital, whereon monsters writhe,
soldered together by the might of claw and tooth,
in a mad whirl of blood, of fiery cries, of
wounds, and of jaws that bite and bite again,

This was myself before you were mine, you who are
new and old, and who, from the depths of your
eternity, came to me with passion and kindness in
your hands.

I feel the same deep, deep things sleeping in you
as in me, and our thirst for remembrance drink up
the echo in which our pasts answer each to each.

Our eyes must have wept at the same hours,
without our knowing, during childhood, have had
the same terrors, the same happinesses, the same
flashes of trust;

For I am bound to you by the unknown that watched
me of old down the avenues through which my
adventurous life passed; and, indeed, if I had
looked more closely, I might have seen, long ago,
within its eyes your own eyes open.

IV

The sky has unfolded into night, and the moon
seems to watch over the sleeping silence.

All is so pure and clear; all is so pure and so
pale in the air and on the lakes of the friendly
countryside, that there is anguish in the fall
from a reed of a drop of water, that tinkles and
then is silent in the water.

But I have your hands between mine and your
steadfast eyes that hold me so gently with their
earnestness; and I feel that you are so much at
peace with everything that nothing, not even a
fleeting suspicion of fear, will overcast, be it
but for a moment, the holy trust that sleeps in
us as an infant rests.

V

Each hour I brood upon your goodness, so simple
in its depth, I lose myself in prayers to you.

I came so late towards the gentleness of your
eyes, and from so far towards your two hands
stretched out quietly over the wide spaces.

I had in me so much stubborn rust that gnawed my
confidence with its ravenous teeth.

I was so heavy, was so tired, I was so old with
misgiving.

I was so heavy, I was so tired of the vain road
of all my footsteps.

I deserved so little the wondrous joy of seeing
your feet illuminate my path that I am still
trembling and almost in tears, and humble, for
ever and ever, before my happiness.

VI

Sometimes you wear the kindly grace of the garden
in early morning that, quiet and winding, unfolds
in the blue distances its pleasant paths, curved
like the necks of swans.

And, at other times, you are for me the bright
thrill of the swift, exalting wind that passes
with its lightning fingers through the watery
mane of the white pond.

At the good touch of your two hands, I feel as
though leaves were caressing me lightly; and,
when midday burns the garden, the shadows at once
gather up the dear words with which your being
trembled.

Thus, thanks to you, each moment seems to pass in
me divinely; so, at the hour of wan night, when
you hide within yourself, shutting your eyes, you
feel my gentle, devout gaze, humbler and longer
than a prayer, thank yours beneath your closed
eyelids.

VII

Oh! let the passing hand knock with its futile
fingers on the door; our hour is so unique, and
the rest--what matters the rest with its futile
fingers?

Let dismal, tiresome joy keep to the road and
pass on with its rattles in its hand.

Let laughter swell and clatter and die away; let
the crowd pass with its thousands of voices.

The moment is so lovely with light in the garden
about us; the moment is so rare with virgin light
in our heart deep down in us.

Everything tells us to expect nothing more from
that which comes or passes, with tired songs and
weary arms, on the roads,

And to remain the meek who bless the day, even
when night is before us barricaded with darkness,
loving in ourselves above all else the idea that,
gently, we conceive of our love.