Volume IV Part 7 (1/2)

And Love, be false! if _he_, to keep one oath, Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold.

x.x.xVII.

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make, Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so Formed of the sand, and fit to s.h.i.+ft and break.

It is that distant years which did not take Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, Have forced my swimming brain to undergo Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake Thy purity of likeness and distort Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit: As if a s.h.i.+pwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-G.o.d to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.

x.x.xVIII.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its ”Oh, list,”

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second pa.s.sed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.

The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, I have been proud and said, ”My love, my own.”

x.x.xIX.

Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace To look through and behind this mask of me (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains), and behold my soul's true face, The dim and weary witness of life's race,-- Because thou hast the faith and love to see, Through that same soul's distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for a place In the new Heavens,--because nor sin nor woe, Nor G.o.d's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood, Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,-- Nothing repels thee, ... Dearest, teach me so To pour out grat.i.tude, as thou dost, good!

XL.

Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!

I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth.

I have heard love talked in my early youth, And since, not so long back but that the flowers Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth For any weeping. Polypheme's white tooth Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers, The sh.e.l.l is over-smooth,--and not so much Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch, And think it soon when others cry ”Too late.”

XLI.

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts, With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all Who paused a little near the prison-wall To hear my music in its louder parts Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's Or temple's occupation, beyond call.

But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot To hearken what I said between my tears, ...

Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot My soul's full meaning into future years, That _they_ should lend it utterance, and salute Love that endures, from Life that disappears!

XLII.

”_My future will not copy fair my past_”-- I wrote that once; and thinking at my side My ministering life-angel justified The word by his appealing look upcast To the white throne of G.o.d, I turned at last, And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried By natural ills, received the comfort fast, While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.

I seek no copy now of life's first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future's epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

XLIII.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the pa.s.sion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.