And we the shadows of the dream.
SHELLEY.
I had not seen my son’s dear face
(He chose the cloister by God’s grace)
Since it had come to full flower-time.
I hardly guessed at its perfect prime,
That folded flower of his dear face.
Mine eyes were veiled by mists of tears
When on a day in many years
One of his order came. I thrilled
Facing, I thought, that face fulfilled.
I doubted, for my mists of tears.
His blessing be with me for ever!
My hope and doubt were hard to sever.
—That altered face, those holy weeds.
I filled his wallet and kissed his beads.
And lost his echoing feet for ever.
If to my son my alms were given
I know not, and I wait for Heaven.
He did not plead for child of mine,
But for another Child divine,
And unto Him it was surely given.
There is one alone who cannot change;
Dreams are we, shadows, visions strange;
And all I give is given to one.
I might mistake my dearest son,
But never the Son who cannot change.
[Illustration: A processional cross with a banner.]
THE POETS.
FIRST VOICE: THE ALPS. SECOND VOICE: THE ANGEL.
Oh, for the hidden songs of showers,
And symphonies of seas!
Oh, for the secrets of a whispering wild of flowers,
And guess’d accords of the harper-wind i’ the trees,
And the warm summer-bees.
For us the springs are old,
And summer after summer cold.
For us the eagles scream
Once suddenly in the sleep of snow.
A deed is done among the centuries.
An avalanche slides slow,
And rests: one more eternity it lies:
And there has been a fall across the dream
Of the white sleep of snow.
Our cold and crownéd heads are lifted up in woe,
Our barren faces,
Whose tears are sealed in awful places.
Thou art so high above.
Let be. A little life! a little love!
What shall repay the baffled soul, the vain endeavour?
Not our great nights
Whose dark unmeasured windy mystery,
Whose falls, whose heights
No heart doth feel, no eye doth see,
For ever.
No, Lord, no.
Nor our great open secret snow,
Where comes the sun at even and morn
To be alone,
And wild winds seeking solitude for their torn
And wounded souls. Can these atone,
Shall these repay?
No, nor the dawns we know,
Whose thoughts grow light on our eternal snow.
We mourn, we pray:
Oh, melt our snows to rain.
How can we reach thee?
Lay us low.
Level us with the plain,
Oh, we beseech thee.
Second Voice:
O cold and glorious!
O lonely and victorious!
Suffer your thoughts, abide.
Suffer, ye seven-fold tried.
Wild winds and storm, rejoice the peaks among;
Exult with timbrel, dance, and song,
Deafen that pain with jubilee.
Cloud answers cloud with thunder;
And eagle’s voice to eagle’s voice replies far under.
I cannot let you be,
My chosen, till your answer rise to me.
Suffer your great wild things; abide.
The secrets that in your abysses hide,
And in your desolate cold are sealed,
Gather in heaven and fall in tender rain
That thoughts of many hearts may be revealed,
These hearts that throng the plain.
Over your brows shall clouds abide,
Yours be the wildest winds, and vast suns open-eyed,
And crowning mists that hide
High fields of thoughts and sunlights after pain.
First Voice:
How shall we reach thee?
Level us with the plain,
Oh, we beseech thee.
SONNET.
THE LOVE OF NARCISSUS.
Like him who met his own eyes in the river,
The poet trembles at his own long gaze
That meets him through the changing nights and days
From out great Nature; all her waters quiver
With his fair image facing him for ever;
The music that he listens to betrays
His own heart to his ears; by trackless ways
His wild thoughts tend to him in long endeavour.
His dreams are for among the silent hills;
His vague voice calls him from the darkened plain
With winds at night; strange recognition thrills
His lonely heart with piercing love and pain;
He knows his sweet mirth in the mountain rills,
His weary tears that touch him with the rain.