Songs of the Silent World, and Other Poems Part 13

THREE FRIENDS.

Oh, not to you, my mentor sweet, And stern as only sweetness can, Whose grave eyes look out steadfastly Across my nature's plan,

And take unerring measure down Where'er that plan is failed or foiled, Thinking far less of purpose kept Than of a vision spoiled.

And tender less to what I am, Than sad for what I might have been; And walking softly before G.o.d For my soul's sake, I ween.

'T is not to you, my spirit leans, O grave, true judge! When spent with strife, And groping out of gloom for light, And out of death for life.

Nor yet to you, who calmly weigh And measure every grace and fault, Whose martial nature never turns From right to left, to halt

For any glamour of the heart, Or any glow that ever is, Grander than Truth's high noonday glare, In love's sweet sunrises;

Who know me by the duller hues Of common nights and common days, And in their sober atmospheres Find level blame and praise.

True hearts and dear! 't is not in you, This fainting, warring soul of mine Finds silver carven chalices, To hold life's choicest wine

Unto its thirsty lips, and bid It drink, and breathe, and battle on, Till all its dreams are deeds at last, And all its heights are won.

I turn to _you_, confiding love.

O lifted eyes! look trustfully, Till Heaven shall lend you other light, Like kneeling saints--on me.

And let me be to you, dear eyes, The thing I am not, till I, too, Shall see as I am seen, and stand At last revealed to you.

And let me n.o.bler than I am, And braver still, eternally, And finer, truer, purer, than My finest, purest, be

To your sweet vision. There I stand Transfigured fair in love's deceit, And while your soul looks up to mine, My heart lies at your feet.

Believe me better than my best, And stronger than my strength can hold, Until your magic faith trans.m.u.te My pebbles into gold.

I'll _be_ the thing you hold me, Dear!-- After I 'm dead, if not before-- Nor, through the climbing ages, will I give the conflict o'er.

But if upon the Perfect Peace, And past the thing that was, and is, And past the lure of voices, in A world of silences,

A pain can crawl--a little one-- A cloud upon a sunlit land; I think in Heaven my heart must ache That you should understand.

A NEW FRIEND.

The sun is sinking on the sacred lands Wherein the grain ungarnered beckoning stands.

Who loses never finds, nor can, nor may, The common, human glory of the day.

Close, let us enter, tear-blind as we must; Reapers, not gleaners of a solemn trust.

AN ETCHING.

A true knight! Knowing neither worldly fear, Nor yet reproach of her unworldly faith; Fine eyes shall see, yet see not, on this page, A man, who from a woman's heart of hearts Could earn, and keep, the sacred name of Friend.

TO MY FATHER.

Tired with the little follies of the day, A child crept, sobbing, to your arms to say Her evening prayer; and if by G.o.d or you Forgiven and loved, she never asked or knew.

With life's mistake and care too early old, And spent with sorrow upon sorrow told, She finds the father's heart the surest rest; The earliest love shall be the last and best.

THE GATES BETWEEN.

Pearl-white, opaque and fixed fast, Flashing between the hands unclasped, Blinding between despairing eyes, The awful Gates shut to, at last, On comfort s.n.a.t.c.hed, and anguish done, On every moan beneath the sun, Till we and ours, and joy are one.

This is your hour, Gates of G.o.d, Your solemn hour, bars of gold, But there shall come another yet.

Like silken sails you shall be furled, Like melting mist you shall be set.

Oh, ye the dearest! vanished from Love's little inner, sheltered spot.

To ye I whisper; not forgot, But loved the dearer, named not.

Across the barrier old as life, Lean to us from the Silent World.

A PRAYER.

VESPERS.

Great G.o.d!

Behold, I lie Beneath Thine awful eye, As the sea beneath the sky.

My G.o.d, What hope abides?

Thine unknown purpose rides The torrent of my tides.