“Oh, you perplexing!” cried she; “not for me,
For _your_ brain! Tell, pray, where it rummaged last,
To catch these cobwebs?—I have seen them, yes;
These halls are full of them, and libraries,
Old musty things!—But, Norman, soberly,
This German text is bad for eyesight, yes;
And half I doubt—Come, tell me, tell the truth,
Do _you_ see clearly aught that you can do?”
“Why so?” I ask’d; “do you?”
“Why not,” she said,
All serious now, “do what shall yield life’s day
The most of glory at its evening hour?—
The sun sets brightest after days of storm.”
“What, always?” ask’d I; “are you sure of this?
I know true faith that mainly aims to rid
Our present life from fears of future ill.
To it what need of storms, if sunshine here
May best prepare one for the future calm?
That future is eternal; even so
How can we gauge th’ eternal save by time?
How can we judge of joy that will not end,
Save by our own, if ours would only last?
What is it to be blessèd, if not this,—
To find our process of becoming blest
Made permanent, our young weak wings of faith
Full fledged and flying by habit?—and if so,
Heaven’s habits are form’d here. Suppose a youth,
That, by and by, he may enjoy much wealth,
Act miserly,—what gains he by and by?—
Much wealth, perhaps; but, holding with it, too,
The miser’s moods, establish’d now as traits,
Incorporated modes of all his life,
He with them holds what most unfits the soul
To use wealth, or enjoy it. So on earth
When avarice, aim’d for heaven, makes man a monk,
What can he gain thereby, save monkish moods,
Become establish’d in him now as traits.
Incorporated modes of all his life?
But, holding these, the soul must with them hold
What most unfits it to enjoy—not here,
In any sphere at all,—a life of love.”