  HISTORYHER gold hair fallen about her face Made light within that shadowy place, But on her garments lay the dust Of many a vanished race. Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead, Saw years and days and hours long dead, While strange gems glimmered at her feet, Yellow, and green, and red. And ever from the shadows came Voices to pierce her heart like flame. The great bats fanned her with their wings, The voices called her name. But yet her look turned not aside From the black deep where dreams abide, Where worlds and pageantries lay dead Beneath that viewless tide. Her elbow on her knee was set, Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet No man might name that look she wore, Nor any man forget. THE chime of bells across the waking year Peals out "The White Christ risen from the dead"— The gospel that the April winds have spread, The mystery the golden-wing makes clear. The tender sky smiles over it; the air Is kind with love to comfort all the earth. The brown parks have forgotten winter's dearth Since daffodils and sunlight made them fair. But still the gray church from the crowded street Allures me with the spell of broken dreams. O heart, my heart, to you and me it seems That God has left His glory incomplete. Can we not see her, as a year ago, Beyond that sunlight flaked in colored fire— The upturned face, the eyes of still desire, The dusk-gold hair that now the angels know? What means this tender April sky to her, With bells that chime against the winds of spring? Does memory move her when the blue birds sing, Or does she feel the old sweet pulses stir? The organ lays its voice across our strife. What is it that the sobbing notes would say? For you and me, my heart, another day! For her—the Resurrection and the Life! TRUE comrade, we have tasted life together; With the wild joy at heart have slipped the tether To follow, follow, to strange wildernesses, The frank enticement of the wind and weather. Joy of the quivering pole, the thrilling sinew, When mad black rapids shook the soul within you. As climbing toward the lakes of inland silence I laughed to see the fanged rocks strain to win you. Joy of the moonlight on the quiet reaches, Where loitering we caught the word that teaches The poise of Godhead to the questing spirit, The urge of springtime to the budding beeches. When through the dusk the serried clouds were massing, Where some lost lake among the hills was glassing The stormy fire above the western spruces, The looming moose would wonder at our passing. Then, when the outland voices ceased to hold us, When winds would tell no more what once they told us, We dreamed how far away a little village Lay waiting with its welcome to infold us. |
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