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THE SONNET I. TO A CRITIC “It is but cunning artifice,” you say? “To it no throb of nature answereth? It hath no living pulse, no vital breath, This puppet, fashioned in an elder day, Through whose strait lips no heart can cry or pray?” O deaf and blind of soul, these words that saith! If that thine ear is dull, what hindereth That quicker ears should hear the bugles play And the trump call to battle? Since the stars First sang together, and the exulting skies Thrilled to their music, earth hath never heard, Above the tumult of her worldly jars, Or loftier songs or prayers than those that rise Where the high sonnet soareth like a bird! II. TO A POET Thou who wouldst wake the sonnet’s silver lyre, Make thine hands clean! Then, as on eagles’ wings, Above the soiling touch of sordid things, Bid thy soul soar till, mounting high and higher, It feels the glow of pure celestial fire, Bathes in clear light, and hears the song that rings Through heaven’s high arches when some angel brings Gifts to the Throne, on wings that never tire! It hath a subtile music, strangely sweet, Yet all unmeet for dance or roundelay, Or idle love that fadeth like a flower. It is the voice of hearts that strongly beat, The cry of souls that grandly love and pray, The trumpet-peal that thrills the battle-hour! AT REST “‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said, “‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great, And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fate Hath made us enemies. If I were dead, And buried deep with grave-mould on my head, I still believe that, came he soon or late Where I was lying in my last estate, My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!” The slow years passed; and one fair summer night, When the low sun was reddening all the west, I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright, Lying so near each other that the crest Of the same wave touched each with amber light. But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest! TOO WIDE! O mighty Earth, thou art too wide, to wide! Too vast thy continents, too broad thy seas, Too far thy prairies stretching fair as these Now reddening in the sunset’s crimson tide! Sundered by thee how have thy children cried Each to some other, until every breeze Has borne a burden of fond messages That all unheard in thy lone wastes have died! Draw closer, O dear Earth, thy hills that soar Up to blue skies such countless leagues apart! Bid thou thine awful spaces smaller grow! Compass thy billows with a narrower shore, That yearning lips may meet, heart beat to heart, And parted souls forget their lonely woe! MERCÉDÈS
(June 27, 1878) O fair young queen, who liest dead to-day In thy proud palace o’er the moaning sea, With still, white hands that never more may be Lifted to pluck life’s roses bright with May— Little is it to you that, far away, Where skies you knew not bend above the free, Hearts touched with tender pity turn to thee, And for thy sake a shadow dims the day! But youth and love and womanhood are one, Though across sundering seas their signals fly; Young Love’s pure kiss, the joy but just begun, The hope of motherhood, thy people’s cry— O thou fair child! was it not hard to die And leave so much beneath the summer sun? GRASS-GROWN Grass grows at last above all graves, you say? Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all! To think that stars will rise and dews will fall, Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play Where roses bloom and violets of May, Robin to robin in the tree-tops call, And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall, Just as they did before that strange, sad day! Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to know That our eyes sometime must forget to weep, Even as June forgets December’s snow? Over the graves where our belovÈd sleep, We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow, Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep! TO ZÜLMA I. Sometimes my heart grows faint with longing, dear— Longing to see thy face, to touch thy hand. But mountains rise between us; leagues of land Stretch on and on where mighty lakes lie clear In the far spaces, and great forests rear Their sombre crowns on many a lonely strand! Yet, O my fair child, canst thou understand, Thou whose dear place was once beside me here, How yet I dare not pray that thou and I Again may dwell together as of old? There is a gate between us, locked and barred, Over which we may not climb; and standing nigh Is the white angel Sorrow, who doth hold The only key that may unlock its ward! II. Yet think not I would have it otherwise! Our God, who knoweth women’s hearts, knows best— And every little bird must build its nest From whence it soareth, singing, to the skies. What though the one that thou hast builded lies Where sinks the sun to its enchanted rest, If, on each breeze that bloweth east or west, To thee, on swiftest wing, my spirit flies? We are not far apart, and ne’er shall be! For Love, like God, knoweth not time, nor space, And it is freer than the viewless air; And well I know, belovÈd, that if we Trod different planets in yon starry space We should reach out, and find each other there! SLEEP Who calls thee “gentle Sleep?” O! rare coquette, Who comest crowned with poppies, thou shouldst wear Nettles instead, or thistles, in thine hair; For thou ’rt the veriest elf that ever yet Made weary mortals sigh and toss and fret! Thou dost float softly through the drowsy air Hovering as if to kiss my lips and share My restless pillow; but ere I can set My arms to clasp thee, without sign or speech, Save one swift, mocking smile thou ’rt out of reach! Yet, sometime, thou, or one as like to thee As sister is to sister, shalt draw near With such soft lullabies for my dull ear, That neither life nor love shall waken me! IN KING’S CHAPEL
(Boston, November 3, 1878) O, Lord of Hosts, how sacred is this place, Where, though the tides of time resistless flow, And the long generations come and go, Thou still abidest! In this holy space The very airs are hushed before Thy face, And wait in reverent calm, as voices low Blend in the prayers and chantings, soft and slow, And the gray twilight stealeth on apace. Hark! There are whispers from the time-worn walls; The mighty dead glide up the shadowy aisle; And there are rustlings as of angels’ wings While from the choir the heavenly music falls! Well may we bow in grateful praise the while— In the King’s Chapel reigns the King of Kings! TO-DAY What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, That comest o’er the mountains with swift feet? All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet, And all the dewy roses of the May Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet; All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet, And owns thy presence in a brighter ray. But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fair As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me, Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear The sudden sackcloth of a great despair! O, pitiless! that through the wandering air Sent no kind warning of the ill to be! F. A. F. When upon eyes long dim, to whom the light Of sun and stars had unfamiliar grown— Eyes that so long in deepening shades had known The mystic visions of the inner sight— Day broke, at last, after the weary night, I cannot think its sudden glory shone In pitiless brightness, dazzling, clear, and white— A piercing splendor on the darkness thrown! Softly as moonlight steals upon the skies, Slowly as shadows creep at set of sun, Gently as falls a mother’s tender kiss, So softly stole the light upon his eyes; So slowly passed the shadows one by one; So gently dawned the morning of his bliss! DAY AND NIGHT I. When I awake at morn, refreshed, renewed, Glad with the gladness of the jocund day And jubilant with all the birds of May, My spirit shrinks from Night’s dull quietude. With it and Sleep I have a deadly feud. I hear the young winds in the maples play, The river singing on its happy way, The swallows twittering to their callow brood. The fresh, fair earth is full of joyous life; The tree-tops toss in billowy unrest; The very mountain shadows are astir! With eager heart I thrill to join the strife; Doing, not dreaming, to my soul seems best, And I am lordly Day’s true worshipper! II. But when with Day’s long weariness oppressed, With folded hands I watch the sun go down, Lighting far torches in the steepled town, And kindling all the glowing, reddening west; When every sleepy bird has sought its nest; When the long shadows from the hills are thrown, And Night’s soft airs about the world are blown, Thou heart of mine, how sweet it is to rest! O, Israfil! Thou of the tuneful voice! It will be nightfall when thy voice I hear, Summoning me to slumber soft and low! Day will be done. Then will I not rejoice That all my tasks are o’er and rest is near, And, like a tired child, be glad to go? THY NAME What matters it what men may call Thee, Thou, The Eternal One, who reign’st supreme, alone, The boundless universe Thy mighty throne? When souls before Thee reverently bow, Oh, carest Thou what name the lips breathe low Jove, or Osiris, or the God Unknown To whom the Athenians raised their altar stone, Or Thine, O Holiest, unto whom we vow? The sun hath many names in many lands; Yet upon all its golden splendors fall, Where’er, from age to age entreating still, The adoring earth uplifts its waiting hands. Love knows all names and answereth to all— Who worships Thee may call Thee what he will! RESURGAMUS What though we sleep a thousand leagues apart, I by my mountains, you beside your sea? What though our moss-grown graves divided be By the wide reaches of a continent’s heart? When from long slumber we at length shall start Wakened to stronger life, exultant, free, This mortal clothed in immortality, Where shall I find my heaven save where thou art? Straight as a bird that hasteth to its nest, Glad as an eagle soaring to the light, Swift as the thought that bears my soul to thine When yon lone star hangs trembling in the west, So straight, so glad, so swift to thee my flight, Led on through farthest space by love divine! AT THE TOMB O Soul! rememberest thou how Mary went In the gray dawn to weep beside the tomb Where one she loved lay buried? Through the gloom, Pallid with pain, and with long anguish spent, Still pressed she on with solemn, high intent, Bearing her costly gifts of rare perfume And spices odorous with eastern bloom, Unto the Master’s sepulchre! But rent Was the great stone from its low door away; And when she stooped to peer with startled eyes Into the dark where slept the pallid clay, Lo, it was gone! And there in heavenly guise, So grandly calm, so fair in morn’s first ray, She found an angel from the upper skies! THREE DAYS I. What shall I bring to lay upon thy bier O Yesterday! thou day forever dead? With what strange garlands shall I crown thy head, Thou silent One? For rose and rue are near Which thou thyself didst bring me; heart’s-ease clear And dark in purple opulence that shed Rare odors round; wormwood, and herbs that fed My soul with bitterness—they all are here! When to the banquet I was called by thee Thou gavest me rags and royal robes to wear; Honey and aloes mingled in the cup Of costly wine that thou didst pour for me; Thy throne, thy footstool, thou didst bid me share; On crusts and heavenly manna bade me sup! II. Thou art no dreamer, O thou stern To-day! The dead past had its dreams; the real is thine. An armored knight, in panoply divine, It is not thine to loiter by the way, Though all the meads with summer flowers be gay, Though birds sing for thee, and though fair stars shine, And every god pours for thee life’s best wine! Nor friend nor foe hath strength to bid thee stay. Gleaming beneath thy brows with smouldering fire Thine eyes look out upon the eternal hills As forth thou ridest with thy spear in rest. From the far heights a voice cries, “Come up higher!” And in swift answer all thy being thrills, When lo! ’tis night—thy sun is in the west! III. But thou, To-morrow! never yet was born In earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair— Never yet tripped, with footsteps light as air, So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn! Fresh as the radiant dawning—all unworn By lightest touch of sorrow, or of care, Thou dost the glory of the morning share By snowy wings of hope and faith upborne! O fair To-morrow! what our souls have missed Art thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still? The buds of promise that have never blown— The tender lips that we have never kissed— The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill— The one white pearl that life hath never known! DARKNESS Come, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balm For eyes grown weary of the garish Day! Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray, Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm! Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off ray Steals the hot fever of the soul away, Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm! O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair, And Light is dear when summer days are long, And one by one the harvesters go by; But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care, And folded palms, and hush of evensong, And all the unfathomed silence of the sky! SILENCE O golden Silence, bid our souls be still, And on the foolish fretting of our care Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware! Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill With soft reverberations. Thou wert there, And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair— A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill. Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet; Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low Murmur of dying winds among the trees, And dear the music of Love’s hurrying feet; Yet only he who knows thee learns to know The secret soul of loftiest harmonies. SANCTIFIED A holy presence hath been here, and, lo, The place is sanctified! From off thy feet Put thou thy shoes, my soul! The air is sweet Even yet with heavenly odors, and I know If thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flow Of most celestial music, and the beat Of rhythmic pinions. It is then most meet That thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and fro Should pass the heavenly messengers and thou, Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul, Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine, Led by an angel, though we know not how, Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole, And passed from thy love to the Love Divine! A MESSAGE I bid thee sing the song I would have sung— The high, pure strain that since my soul was born, Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn, Through all its chambers hath divinely rung! In thee let my whole being find a tongue; Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn, Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn. Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young! O my glad singer of the tuneful voice, Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar, Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach, Beyond the plummet of a woman’s speech. Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice! WHEN LESSER LOVES When lesser loves by the relentless flow Of mighty currents from my arms were torn And swept, unheeding, to that silent bourn Whose mystic shades no living man may know, By night, by day, I sang my songs; and so, Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn, Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn, Pouring my grief out in melodious woe! Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute. Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost lean Earthward, remembering love’s last wordless kiss, Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute, Dying soft wails and tender songs between, Were half so voiceful as this silence is! GEORGE ELIOT Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest! Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow Weaves its white pall above her, lying low With empty hands crossed idly on her breast. O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressed Your pitying tears fall silently and slow, Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow, Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed. Are we so pure that we should scoff at her, Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb? God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore, Even what time their petals were astir In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume. Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore! KNOWING One summer day, to a young child I said, “Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face, And laboring fingers all unused to trace The mystic characters, he bent his head (That should have danced amid the flowers instead) Over the blurred page for a half-hour’s space; Then with a sigh that burdened all the place Cried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped. O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray, Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong! God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain, Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say. A THOUGHT
(SUGGESTED BY READING
“A MIRACLE IN STONE”) Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One, Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings, In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings; Thou at whose word the morning stars begun With song and shout their glorious course to run; Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings, And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings From every shore that smiles beneath the sun; Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills And bid the mountains speak for thee alway, Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills, And to each flower that breathes its life away— Oh! dost thou smile, or frown, when man’s conceit Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet? TO-MORROW I. Mysterious One, inscrutable, unknown, A silent Presence, with averted face Whose lineaments no mortal eye can trace, And robes of trailing darkness round thee thrown, Over the midnight hills thou comest alone! What thou dost bring to me from farthest space, What blessing or what ban, what dole, what grace, I may not know. Thy secrets are thine own! Yet, asking not for lightest word or sign To tell me what the hidden fate may be, Without a murmur, or a quickened breath, Unshrinkingly I place my hand in thine, And through the shadowy depths go forth with thee To meet, as thou shalt lead, or life, or death! II. Then, if I fear not thee, thou veilÈd One Whose face I know not, why fear I to meet Beyond the everlasting hills her feet Who cometh when all Yesterdays are done? Shall I, who have proved thee good, thy sister shun? O thou To-morrow, who dost feel the beat Of life’s long, rhythmic pulses, strong and sweet, In the far realm that hath no need of sun— Thou who art fairer than the fair To-day That I have held so dear, and loved so much— When, slow descending from the hills divine, Thou summonest me to join thee on thy way, Let me not shrink nor tremble at thy touch, Nor fear to break thy bread and drink thy wine! “O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?” O Earth! art thou not weary of thy graves? Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breast How are they heaped from farthest east to west! From the dim north, where the wild storm-wind raves O’er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves, To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed, Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest, How thick they lie—like flecks upon the waves! There is no mountain-top so far and high, No desert so remote, no vale so deep, No spot by man so long untenanted, But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky, Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep! O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead? ALEXANDER There was a man whom all men called The Great. Low lying on his death-bed, we are told, He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold, Breathless, and silent in his last estate, And they who were to bury him should wait Outside the palace) that no cerecloth’s fold Or winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled: Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state! Thus spake he: “On the black pall let them lie, Empty and lorn, that all the world may see How of his riches there was nothing left To Alexander when he came to die.” Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was he As any beggar of his crust bereft! THE PLACE
“I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU” I. O Holy Place, we know not where thou art! Though one by one our well-beloved dead From our close claspings to thy bliss have fled, They send no word back to the breaking heart; And if, perchance, their angels fly athwart The silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread, The swift white-wings we see not, but instead Only the dark void keeping us apart. Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place? Made he a new world in the heavens high hung, So far from this poor earth that even yet Its first glad rays have traversed not the space That lies between us, nor their glory flung On the old home its sons can ne’er forget? II. But what if on some fair, auspicious night, Like that on which the shepherds watched of old, Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled, Shall stream the radiance of a star more bright Than ever yet hath shone on mortal sight— Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold, Wave after wave of glory manifold, From zone to zenith flooding all the height? And what if, moved by some strange inner sense, Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far, Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space, All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense, “Behold, behold this new resplendent star— Our heaven at last revealed!—the Place! the Place!” III. Then shall the heavenly host with one accord Veil their bright faces in obeisance meet, While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet. Then shall Orion own at last his Lord, And from his belt unloose the blazing sword, While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet, Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet, And Lyra strikes her harp’s most rapturous chord. O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice! Break into singing, all ye silent hills; And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply! Let the remotest desert find a voice! The whole creation to its centre thrills, For the new light of Heaven is in the sky! TO A GODDESS
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