Volume I Part 39 (1/2)

One s.h.i.+ning day, s.h.i.+ning with sun and snow, he came and said, ”What think you, father--is death very sore?”

”My boy,” the father answered, ”we will try To make it easy with the present G.o.d.

But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight, It seems much harder to the lookers on Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath We call a gasp, may be in him the cry Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob With which the unclothed spirit, step by step.

Wades forth into the cool eternal sea.

I think, my boy, death has two sides to it-- One sunny, and one dark--as this round earth Is every day half sunny and half dark.

We on the dark side call the mystery _death_; They on the other, looking down in light, Wait the glad _birth_, with other tears than ours.”

”Be near me, father, when I die,” he said.

”I will, my boy, until a better Father Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, When my time comes--you in the light beyond, And knowing well the country--I in the dark.”

The days went by, until the tender green Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart; For the spring drew him--warm, soft, budding spring, With promises, and he went forth to meet her.

But he who once had strode a king on the fields, Walked softly now; lay on the daisied gra.s.s; And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair, Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing.

But though I lingering listen to the old, Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old And lift their lost souls up the music-stair-- Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart To look the blank unknown full in the void; For he had hope in G.o.d--the growth of years, Of ponderings, of childish aspirations, Of prayers and readings and repentances; For something in him had ever sought the peace Of other something deeper in him still-- A _faint_ sound sighing for a harmony With other fainter sounds, that softly drew Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths Where the Individual goeth out in G.o.d: The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, And sought the way by which the music came, Hoping at last to find the face of him To whom Saint John said _Lord_ with holy awe, And on his bosom fearless leaned the while.

As his slow spring came on, the swelling life, The new creation inside of the old, Pressed up in buds toward the invisible.

And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay.

Not once he thought of that still churchyard now; He looked away from earth, and loved the sky.

One earthly notion only clung to him:-- He thanked G.o.d that he died not in the cold; ”For,” said he, ”I would rather go abroad When the sun s.h.i.+nes, and birds are singing blithe.--It may be that we know not aught of place, Or any sense, and only live in thought; But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light.

I _may_ pa.s.s forth into the sea of air That swings its ma.s.sy waves around the earth, And I would rather go when it is full Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick.

Now in the dawn of summer I shall die-- Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, And going with the light. And when they say, 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;'

I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'”

The weary nights did much to humble him; They made the good he knew seem all ill known: He would go by and by to school again!

”Father,” he said, ”I am nothing; but Thou _art_!”

Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, Who, longing for his mother, has forgot The arms about him, holding him to her heart: _Mother_ he murmuring moans; she wakes him up That he may see her face, and sleep indeed.

Father! we need thy winter as thy spring; We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers; But through them all thy strong arms carry us, Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief.

Because thou lovest goodness more than joy In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve: We must not vex thee with our peevish cries, But look into thy face, and hold thee fast, And say _O Father, Father_! when the pain Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: We never grasp the zenith of the time!

We have no spring except in winter-prayers!

But we believe--alas, we only hope!--That one day we shall thank thee perfectly For every disappointment, pang, and shame, That drove us to the bosom of thy love.

One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep.

His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark, Through which bright pictures pa.s.sed of the outer world: The regnant Will gazed pa.s.sive on the show; The magic tube through which the shadows came, Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, Glided across the field the things that were, Silent and sorrowful, like all things old: Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, And old brown letters are more sad than graves.

At length, as ever in such vision-hours, Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse.

Will started all awake, pa.s.sive no more, And, necromantic sage, the apparition That came unbid, commanded to abide.

Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts: How had she fared, spinning her history Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer?

Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained?

”I know,” he said, ”some women fail of life!

The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?”

The fount of possibilities began To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought: Anon the geyser-column raging rose;-- For purest souls sometimes have direst fears In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth Is cast on half her children, and the sun Is busy giving daylight to the rest.

”Oh, G.o.d!” he cried, ”if she be such as those!-- Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still Fancy the wavings of invisible wings, But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts, Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!-- It cannot, cannot be! She is of G.o.d!-- And yet things lovely peris.h.!.+ higher life Gives deeper death! fair gifts make fouler faults!-- Women themselves--I dare not think the rest!”

Such thoughts went walking up and down his soul But found at last a spot wherein to rest, Building a resolution for the day.

The next day, and the next, he was too worn To clothe intent in body of a deed.

A cold dry wind blew from the unkindly east, Making him feel as he had come to the earth Before G.o.d's spirit moved on the water's face, To make it ready for him.