  I hear you praise What you are pleased to call unsounded depths Of character; a nature that the world Would call reserved; tempting you while it hides— Or you suspect it hides—a richer wealth Deep in some far recesses of the soul. As if, indeed, you should approve the host Who with most admirable courtesy Should throw wide open to your curious gaze His drawing-room, his green-house and his hall; Yet should not hesitate to let you see Certain close-bolted doors of hardest oak, Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here, Alas! I cannot let you enter.” You At once are filled with curiosity To listen at the keyhole. So am I; Yet much I doubt if after all those deep Recesses of the soul are filled with aught But emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang; The master of the house can scarce himself Feel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts; Although he take an honorable pride, Leaning at ease in comfortable chair, To know there are some chambers in his soul Unentered even by himself. But him I call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a well Of frank sincerity; whose smiling lips, Curving with hospitable gayety, Bid you most welcome to his house and home; Throwing wide open to your curious gaze Each nook and corner; leaving you at ease To wander where you will; and if at times You half suspect some hidden sweet retreat Where hyacinths are blossoming unseen, ’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doors Whisper of secrets you would fain explore; But that the tapestries upon the wall So lightly hang, that swaying to and fro, They half betray a fragrance from within. You never once suspect that secret doors Are sliding in the panels underneath; But when you go, the master of the house Lifts easily the soft and shining silk, To find there sacred silence from you all. ’Tis easier To read the secrets of a dark, deep pool That coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,” With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky, Than catch the meaning of a silver spring, Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heart |
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