“_Chiunque venne qui, portò con sè il suo mistero amoroso._”
MATILDE SERAO
This vision of my childhood comes to me:
A little river by my northern home,
A mountain river, noisy, white with foam,
Brave-hearted, full of laughter, song and glee,
Myself like to in those old days care-free,
It longed for other scenes and left the home;
I met it far away, now silent grown
Mid meadows; sad, with nearness of the sea.
O little mountain river! I’m like you,
Hushed, silenced, by the wonder of life, too,
Struck fear-dumb by the nearness of a sea
Which, as for you the ocean, waits for me;
Were it not there with cruel, baleful glow
I’d not have lived life thus—O no, no, no!
L
O let me be a child to you to-night!
Take from me lore of love and all its pain,
Then tell some fabled tale of olden Spain
And let me listen with a child’s delight!
O let me be a child to you to-night!
So tired am I of stress and strife and strain—
Of life—the puzzle naught can now make plain,
Of balance keeping between wrong and right!
You’ve asked me often if I ever pray.
Can any to that question answer—nay?
What are ambition, effort,—life—but prayer,
What are all great desires everywhere?
I’m praying now beneath your eyes’ love-light—
O let me be a child again to-night!