Part 9 (1/2)

Around the vase of Life at your slow pace He has not crept, but turned it with his hands, And all its sides already understands.

There, girt, one breathes alert for some great race; Whose road runs far by sands and fruitful s.p.a.ce; Who laughs, yet through the jolly throng has pa.s.s'd; Who weeps, nor stays for weeping; who at last, A youth, stands somewhere crowned, with silent face.

And he has filled this vase with wine for blood, With blood for tears, with spice for burning vow, With watered flowers for buried love most fit; And would have cast it shattered to the flood, Yet in Fate's name has kept it whole; which now Stands empty till his ashes fall in it.

LIFE THE BELOVED

As thy friend's face, with shadow of soul o'erspread, Somewhile unto thy sight perchance hath been Ghastly and strange, yet never so is seen In thought, but to all fortunate favour wed; As thy love's death-bound features never dead To memory's gla.s.s return, but contravene Frail fugitive days, and always keep, I ween Than all new life a livelier lovelihead:--

So Life herself, thy spirit's friend and love, Even still as Spring's authentic harbinger Glows with fresh hours for hope to glorify; Though pale she lay when in the winter grove Her funeral flowers were snow-flakes shed on her And the red wings of frost-fire rent the sky.

A SUPERSCRIPTION

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea sh.e.l.l Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the gla.s.s where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

HE AND I

Whence came his feet into my field, and why?

How is it that he sees it all so drear?

How do I see his seeing, and how hear The name his bitter silence knows it by?

This was the little fold of separate sky Whose pasturing clouds in the soul's atmosphere Drew living light from one continual year: How should he find it lifeless? He, or I?