A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 25

"Ah, my pictured life," you cry, "Fading into sea and sky!"

Lost in thought that gently grieves you, All the fairy landscape leaves you; Sinks the sadness into rest, Ripple-like on water's breast; Mother's bosom rests the daughter,-- Grief the ripple, Love the water.

All the past is strangely blended In a mist of colours splendid, But chaotic as to form, An unfeatured beauty-storm.

Wakes within, the ancient mind For a gloriousness defined: As she sought and knew your pleasure,-- Wiling with a dancing measure, Underneath your closed eyes She calls the shapes of clouded skies; White forms flushing hyacinthine Twine in curvings labyrinthine; Seem with G.o.dlike graceful feet, For such mazy motion meet, To press from air each lambent note, On whose throbbing fire they float; With an airy wishful gait On each others' motion wait; Naked arms and vesture free Fill up the dance of harmony.

Gone the measure polyhedral!

Springs aloft a high cathedral; Every arch, like praying arms Upward flung in love's alarms, Knit by clasped hands o'erhead, Heaves to heaven the weight of dread.

Underneath thee, like a cloud, Gathers music, dim not loud, Swells thy bosom with devotion, Floats thee like a wave of ocean; Vanishes the pile away,-- In heaven thou kneelest down to pray.

Let the sounds but reach thy heart, Straight thyself magician art; Walkest open-eyed through earth; Seest wonders in their birth, Whence they come and whither go; Thou thyself exalted so, Nature's consciousness, whereby On herself she turns her eye.

Only heed thou worship G.o.d; Else thou stalkest on thy sod, Puppet-G.o.d of picture-world, For thy foolish gaze unfurled; Mirror-thing of things below thee.

Thy own self can never know thee; Not a high and holy actor; A reflector, and refractor; Helpless in thy gift of light, Self-consuming into night.

Lasting yet the roseate glory!

I must hasten with my story Of the little room's true features, Seldom seen by mortal creatures; Lest my prophet-vision fading Leave me in the darkness wading.

What are those upon the wall, Ranged in rows symmetrical?

They are books, an owl would say; But the owl's night is the day: Of these too, if you have patience, I can give you revelations: Through the walls of Time and Sight, Doors they are to the Infinite; Through the limits that embrace us, Openings to the eternal s.p.a.ces, Round us all the noisy day, Full of silences alway; Round us all the darksome night, Ever full of awful light: And, though closed, may still remind us There is mystery behind us.

That, my friend? Now, it is curious, You should hit upon the spurious!

'Tis a blind, a painted door: Knock at it for evermore, Never vision it affords But its panelled gilded boards; Behind it lieth nought at all, But the limy, webby wall.

Oh no, not a painted block-- Not the less a printed mock; A book, 'tis true; no whit the more A revealing out-going door.

There are two or three such books For a while in others' nooks; Where they should no longer be, But for reasons known to me.

Do not open that one though.

It is real; but if you go Careless to it, as to dance, You'll see nothing for your glance; Blankness, deafness, blindness, dumbness, Soon will stare you to a numbness.

No, my friend; it is not wise To open doors into the skies, As into a little study, Where a feeble brain grows muddy.

Wait till night, and you shall be Left alone with mystery; Light this lamp's white softened ray, (Another wonder by the way,) Then with humble faith and prayer, Ope the door with patient care: Yours be calmness then, and strength For the sight you see at length.

Sometimes, after trying vainly, With much effort, forced, ungainly, To entice the rugged door To yield up its wondrous lore, With a sudden burst of thunder All its frame is dashed asunder; The gulfy silence, lightning-fleet, Shooteth h.e.l.lward at thy feet.

Take thou heed lest evil terror Snare thee in a downward error, Drag thee through the narrow gate, Give thee up to windy fate, To be blown for evermore Up and down without a sh.o.r.e; For to shun the good as ill Makes the evil bolder still.

But oftener far the portal opes With the sound of coming hopes; On the joy-astonished eyes Awful heights of glory rise; Mountains, stars, and dreadful s.p.a.ce, The Eternal's azure face.

In storms of silence self is drowned, Leaves the soul a gulf profound, Where new heavens and earth arise, Rolling seas and arching skies.

Gathers slow a vapour o'er thee From the ocean-depths before thee: Lo! the vision all hath vanished, Thou art left alone and banished; Shut the door, thou findest, groping, Without chance of further oping.

Thou must wait until thy soul Rises nearer to its goal; Till more childhood strength has given-- Then approach this gate of Heaven: It will open as before, Yielding wonders, yet in store For thee, if thou wilt turn to good Things already understood.

Why I let such useless lumber Useful bookshelves so enc.u.mber?

I will tell thee; for thy question Of wonders brings me to the best one.

There's a future wonder, may be-- Sure a present magic baby; (Patience, friend, I know your looks-- What has that to do with books?) With her sounds of molten speech Quick a parent's heart to reach, Though uncoined to words sedate, Or even to sounds articulate; Yet sweeter than the music's flowing, Which doth set her music going.

Now our highest wonder-duty Is with this same wonder-beauty; How, with culture high and steady, To unfold a magic-lady; How to keep her full of wonder At all things above and under; Her from childhood never part, Change the brain, but keep the heart.

She is G.o.d's child all the time; On all the hours the child must climb, As on steps of shining stairs Leading up the path of prayers.

So one lesson from our looks, Must be this: to honour books, As a strange and mystic band Which she cannot understand; Scarce to touch them without fear, Never, but when I am near, As a priest, to temple-rite Leading in the acolyte.

But when she has older grown, And can see a difference shown,

She must learn, 'tis not _appearing_ Makes a book fit for revering; To distinguish and divide 'Twixt the form and soul inside; That a book is more than boards, Leaves and words in gathered hordes, Which no greater good can do man Than the goblin hollow woman, Or a pump without a well, Or priest without an oracle.

Form is worthless, save it be Type of an infinity; Sign of something present, true, Though unopened to the view, Heady in its bosom holding What it will be aye unfolding, Never uttering but in part, From an unexhausted heart.

Sight convincing to her mind, I will separate kind from kind, Take those books, though honoured by her Lay them on the study fire, For their form's sake somewhat tender, Yet consume them to a cinder; Years of reverence shall not save them From the greedy flames that crave them.

You shall see this slight Immortal, Half-way yet within life's portal; Gathering gladness, she looks back, Streams it forward on her track; Wanders ever in the dance Of her own sweet radiance.

Though the glory cease to burn, Inward only it will turn; Make her hidden being bright, Make herself a lamp of light; And a second gate of birth Will take her to another earth.

But, my friend, I've rattled plenty To suffice for mornings twenty; And I must not toss you longer On this torrent waxing stronger.

Other things, past contradiction, Here would prove I spoke no fiction, Did I lead them up, choragic, To reveal their nature magic.

There is that machine, gla.s.s-masked, With continual questions tasked, Ticking with untiring rock: It is called an eight-day clock.

But to me the thing appears Made for winding up the years, Drawing on, fast as it can, The day when comes the Son of Man.

On the sea the sunshine broods, And the shining tops of woods; We will leave these oracles, Finding others 'mid the hills.

SYMPATHY.

Grief held me silent in my seat, I neither moved nor smiled: Joy held her silent at my feet, My little lily-child.

She raised her face; she seemed to feel That she was left outside; She said one word with childish zeal That would not be denied.

Twice more my name, with infant grace; Sole word her lips could mould!

Her face was pulling at my face-- She was but ten months old.

I know not what were my replies-- I thought: dost Thou, O G.o.d, Need ever thy poor children's eyes, To ease thee of thy load?

They find not Thee in evil case, But, raised in sorrow wild, Bring down from visiting thy face The calmness of a child.

Thou art the depth of Heaven above-- The springing well in her; Not Father only in thy love, But daily minister.

And this is how the comfort slid From her to me the while,-- It was thy present face that did Smile on me from her smile.

LITTLE ELFIE.

I have an elfish maiden child; She is not two years old; Through windy locks her eyes gleam wild, With glances shy and bold.

Like little imps, her tiny hands Dart out and push and take; Chide her--a trembling thing she stands, And like two leaves they shake.

But to her mind a minute gone Is like a year ago; So when you lift your eyes anon, They're at it, to and fro.

Sometimes, though not oppressed with thought, She has her sleepless fits; Then to my room in blanket brought, In round-backed chair she sits;

Where, if by chance in graver mood, A hermit she appears, Seated in cave of ancient wood, Grown very still with years.

Then suddenly the pope she is, A playful one, I know; For up and down, now that, now this, Her feet like plash-mill go.

Why like the pope? She's at it yet, Her knee-joints flail-like go: Unthinking man! it is to let Her mother kiss each toe.