Do you remember—can we e’er forget?—
How, in the coiled perplexities of youth,
In our wild climate, in our scowling town,
We gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed, and feared?
The belching winter wind, the missile rain,
The rare and welcome silence of the snows,
The laggard morn, the haggard day, the night,
The grimy spell of the nocturnal town,
Do you remember?—Ah, could one forget!
As when the fevered sick that all night long
Listed the wind intone, and hear at last
The ever-welcome voice of the chanticleer
Sing in the bitter hour before the dawn,—
With sudden ardour, these desire the day:
(Here a squall sends all flying.)
So sang in the gloom of youth the bird of hope;
So we, exulting, hearkened and desired.
For lo! as in the palace porch of life
We huddled with chimeras, from within—
How sweet to hear!—the music swelled and fell,
And through the breach of the revolving doors
What dreams of splendour blinded us and fled!
I have since then contended and rejoiced;
Amid the glories of the house of life
Profoundly entered, and the shrine beheld:
Yet when the lamp from my expiring eyes
Shall dwindle and recede, the voice of love
Fall insignificant on my closing ears,
What sound shall come but the old cry of the wind
In our inclement city? what return
But the image of the emptiness of youth,
Filled with the sound of footsteps and that voice
Of discontent and rapture and despair?
So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp,
The momentary pictures gleam and fade
And perish, and the night resurges—these
Shall I remember, and then all forget.
They’re pretty second-rate, but felt. I can’t be bothered to copy the
other.
I have bought 314½ acres of beautiful land in the bush behind Apia; when
we get the house built, the garden laid, and cattle in the place, it will
be something to fall back on for shelter and food; and if the island
could stumble into political quiet, it is conceivable it might even bring
a little income. . . . We range from 600 to 1500 feet, have five streams,
waterfalls, precipices, profound ravines, rich tablelands, fifty head of
cattle on the ground (if any one could catch them), a great view of
forest, sea, mountains, the warships in the haven: really a noble place.
Some day you are to take a long holiday and come and see us: it has been
all planned.
With all these irons in the fire, and cloudy prospects, you may be sure I
was pleased to hear a good account of business. I believed _The Master_
was a sure card: I wonder why Henley thinks it grimy; grim it is, God
knows, but sure not grimy, else I am the more deceived. I am sorry he
did not care for it; I place it on the line with _Kidnapped_ myself.
We’ll see as time goes on whether it goes above or falls below.