And now the moon sheds its compa.s.sion O'er the hushed mount, I try to fashion The manner of their meeting, Their few first words of greeting.

O well for them, with clasped hands, Unshamed amid the heavenly bands!

They hear no pitying pair Of old-time lovers there

Look down and say in an undertone, "This latest-come, who comes alone, Was still alone on earth, And lonely from his birth."

Nor feel a sudden whisper mar G.o.d's weather, "Dost thou see the scar That spirit hideth so?

Who dealt her such a blow

"That G.o.d can hardly wipe it out?"

And answer, "She gave love, no doubt, To one who saw not fit To set much store by it."

THE DAGUERREOTYPE

This, then, is she, My mother as she looked at seventeen, When she first met my father. Young incredibly, Younger than spring, without the faintest trace Of disappointment, weariness, or tean Upon the childlike earnestness and grace Of the waiting face.

These close-wound ropes of pearl (Or common beads made precious by their use) Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare And half the glad swell of the breast, for news That now the woman stirs within the girl.

And yet, Even so, the loops and globes Of beaten gold And jet Hung, in the stately way of old, From the ears' drooping lobes On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, Show all too matron-sober for the cheek,-- Which, now I look again, is perfect child, Or no--or no--'t is girlhood's very self, Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf So meek, so maiden mild, But startling the close gazer with the sense Of pa.s.sions forest-shy and forest-wild, And delicate delirious merriments.

As a moth beats sidewise And up and over, and tries To skirt the irresistible lure Of the flame that has him sure, My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, Flutters and makes delay,-- Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair And each hid radiance there, But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light Where soon--ah, now, with cries Of grief and giving-up unto its gain It shrinks no longer nor denies, But dips Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain,-- And all is well, for I have seen them plain, The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes!

Across the blinding gush of these good tears They shine as in the sweet and heavy years When by her bed and chair We children gathered jealously to share The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, Where the sore-stricken body made a clime Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, Holier and more mystical than prayer.

G.o.d, how thy ways are strange!

That this should be, even this, The patient head Which suffered years ago the dreary change!

That these so dewy lips should be the same As those I stooped to kiss And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, A little ere the one who bowed above her, Our father and her very constant lover, Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead.

Then I, who could not understand or share His antique n.o.bleness, Being unapt to bear The insults which time flings us for our proof, Fled from the horrible roof Into the alien sunshine merciless, The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day, Raging to front G.o.d in his pride of sway And hurl across the lifted swords of fate That ringed Him where He sat My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate Which somehow should undo Him, after all!

That this girl face, expectant, virginal, Which gazes out at me Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth (Save for the eyes, with other presage stored) To pledge me troth, And in the kingdom where the heart is lord Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep Whose winds the gray Norns keep,-- That this should be indeed The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed, Out of the to and fro Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage, Stooping from star to star and age to age Sings as he sows!

That underneath this breast Nine moons I fed Deep of divine unrest, While over and over in the dark she said, "Blessed! but not as happier children blessed"-- That this should be Even she....

G.o.d, how with time and change Thou makest thy footsteps strange!

Ah, now I know They play upon me, and it is not so.

Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, A little thing to flatter and make weep, To tease until her heart is sore, Then kiss and clear the score; A gypsy run-the-fields, A little liberal daughter of the earth, Good for what hour of truancy and mirth The careless season yields. .h.i.ther-side the flood o' the year and yonder of the neap; Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.-- O shrined above the skies, Frown not, clear brow, Darken not, holy eyes!

Thou knowest well I know that it is thou!

Only to save me from such memories As would unman me quite, Here in this web of strangeness caught And prey to troubled thought Do I devise These foolish shifts and slight; Only to shield me from the afflicting sense Of some waste influence Which from this morning face and l.u.s.trous hair Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair.

In any other guise, With any but this girlish depth of gaze, Your coming had not so unsealed and poured The dusty amphoras where I had stored The drippings of the winepress of my days.

I think these eyes foresee, Now in their unawakened virgin time, Their mother's pride in me, And dream even now, unconsciously, Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea You pictured I should climb.

Broken premonitions come, Shapes, gestures visionary, Not as once to maiden Mary The manifest angel with fresh lilies came Intelligibly calling her by name; But vanishingly, dumb, Thwarted and bright and wild, As heralding a sin-defiled, Earth-enc.u.mbered, blood-begotten, pa.s.sionate man-child, Who yet should be a trump of mighty call Blown in the gates of evil kings To make them fall; Who yet should be a sword of flame before The soul's inviolate door To beat away the clang of h.e.l.lish wings; Who yet should be a lyre Of high unquenchable desire In the day of little things.-- Look, where the amphoras, The yield of many days, Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self And set upon the shelf In sullen pride The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide-- O mother mine!

Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine, Of him you used to praise?

Emptied and overthrown The jars lie strown.

These, for their flavor duly nursed, Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; These, I thought honied to the very seal, Dry, dry,--a little acid meal, A pinch of mouldy dust, Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; These, rude to look upon, But flasking up the liquor dearest won, Through sacred hours and hard, With watching and with wrestlings and with grief, Even of these, of these in chief, The stale breath sickens, reeking from the shard.

Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than naught!

What shall be said or thought Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, The cynic rending of the wings, Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart Whereof this brewage was the precious part, Treasured and set away with furtive boast?

O dear and cruel ghost, Be merciful, be just!

See, I was yours and I am in the dust.

Then look not so, as if all things were well!

Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, Or else, if gaze they must, Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; But by the ways of light ineffable You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of h.e.l.l Whereto my feet have come, Lay not on me these intolerable Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!

Nothing dismayed?

By all I say and all I hint not made Afraid?

O then, stay by me! Let These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet.

Brave eyes and true!

See how the shriveled heart, that long has lain Dead to delight and pain, Stirs, and begins again To utter pleasant life, as if it knew The wintry days were through; As if in its awakening boughs it heard The quick, sweet-spoken bird.

Strong eyes and brave, Inexorable to save!