  I I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no Peculiarity. The world to-day Is disappointed if we are not odd, And hold decided views on some one point, Or else unsettled views on all. But she Was living simply what she wished to live: A lovely life of rounded womanhood; With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite Content was she to let the golden days Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er Each night with dull, mechanical routine; But yet she had no central purpose; no Absorbing aim to which all else must yield; And so the very sweetness of her life, Its exquisite simplicity and calm, Musical in its silence, smote the ear More sharply than the discords of the rest. So do we grow accustomed far at sea To jar and clang of harsh machinery, And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all That stirs the air, we waken with a start, And ask in terror what has happened! Then Sink back again upon the pillows; strange, That silence should have wakened us! Alas! The world has grown so feverishly hot With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams, That lives which have the cool and temperate flow Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem |
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