Part 8 (2/2)

Truth has a lonely life down where she lives; And many a time, when she comes up to breathe, She sinks before we seize her, and makes ripples.

Possibly you may know no more of me Than a few ripples; and they may soon be gone, Leaving you then with all my s.h.i.+ning truth Drowned in a s.h.i.+ning water; and when you look You may not see me there, but something else That never was a woman -- being yourself.

You say to me my truth is past all drowning, And safe with you for ever? You know all that?

How do you know all that, and who has told you?

You know so much that I'm an atom frightened Because you know so little. And what is this?

You know the luxury there is in haunting The blasted thoroughfares of disillusion -- If that's your name for them -- with only ghosts For company? You know that when a woman Is blessed, or cursed, with a divine impatience (Another name of yours for a bad temper) She must have one at hand on whom to wreak it (That's what you mean, whatever the turn you give it), Sure of a kindred sympathy, and thereby Effect a mutual calm? You know that wisdom, Given in vain to make a food for those Who are without it, will be seen at last, And even at last only by those who gave it, As one or more of the forgotten crumbs That others leave? You know that men's applause And women's envy savor so much of dust That I go hungry, having at home no fare But the same changeless bread that I may swallow Only with tears and prayers? Who told you that?

You know that if I read, and read alone, Too many books that no men yet have written, I may go blind, or worse? You know yourself, Of all insistent and insidious creatures, To be the one to save me, and to guard For me their flaming language? And you know That if I give much headway to the whim That's in me never to be quite sure that even Through all those years of storm and fire I waited For this one rainy day, I may go on, And on, and on alone, through smoke and ashes, To a cold end? You know so dismal much As that about me? . . . Well, I believe you do.

Nimmo

Since you remember Nimmo, and arrive At such a false and florid and far drawn Confusion of odd nonsense, I connive No longer, though I may have led you on.

So much is told and heard and told again, So many with his legend are engrossed, That I, more sorry now than I was then, May live on to be sorry for his ghost.

You knew him, and you must have known his eyes, -- How deep they were, and what a velvet light Came out of them when anger or surprise, Or laughter, or Francesca, made them bright.

No, you will not forget such eyes, I think, -- And you say nothing of them. Very well.

I wonder if all history's worth a wink, Sometimes, or if my tale be one to tell.

For they began to lose their velvet light; Their fire grew dead without and small within; And many of you deplored the needless fight That somewhere in the dark there must have been.

All fights are needless, when they're not our own, But Nimmo and Francesca never fought.

Remember that; and when you are alone, Remember me -- and think what I have thought.

Now, mind you, I say nothing of what was, Or never was, or could or could not be: Bring not suspicion's candle to the gla.s.s That mirrors a friend's face to memory.

Of what you see, see all, -- but see no more; For what I show you here will not be there.

The devil has had his way with paint before, And he's an artist, -- and you needn't stare.

There was a painter and he painted well: He'd paint you Daniel in the lions' den, Beelzebub, Elaine, or William Tell.

I'm coming back to Nimmo's eyes again.

The painter put the devil in those eyes, Unless the devil did, and there he stayed; And then the lady fled from paradise, And there's your fact. The lady was afraid.

She must have been afraid, or may have been, Of evil in their velvet all the while; But sure as I'm a sinner with a skin, I'll trust the man as long as he can smile.

I trust him who can smile and then may live In my heart's house, where Nimmo is today.

G.o.d knows if I have more than men forgive To tell him; but I played, and I shall pay.

I knew him then, and if I know him yet, I know in him, defeated and estranged, The calm of men forbidden to forget The calm of women who have loved and changed.

But there are ways that are beyond our ways, Or he would not be calm and she be mute, As one by one their lost and empty days Pa.s.s without even the warmth of a dispute.

G.o.d help us all when women think they see; G.o.d save us when they do. I'm fair; but though I know him only as he looks to me, I know him, -- and I tell Francesca so.

And what of Nimmo? Little would you ask Of him, could you but see him as I can, At his bewildered and unfruitful task Of being what he was born to be -- a man.

Better forget that I said anything Of what your tortured memory may disclose; I know him, and your worst remembering Would count as much as nothing, I suppose.

Meanwhile, I trust him; and I know his way Of trusting me, as always in his youth.

I'm painting here a better man, you say, Than I, the painter; and you say the truth.

Peace on Earth

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