If she he loved were but as good and fair
As he was worthy of.
It was his way.
There is a dark and bright to every thing;
To every thing but beauty such as thine,
And that is all bright. If a fault in him,
’Twas one which made him do the sweetest wrongs
Man ever did. And yet a whisper went
That he did wrong: and if that whisper had
Echo in him or not, it mattered little;
Or right or wrong, he were alike unhappy.
Ah me! ah me! that there should be so much
To call up love, so little to delight!
The best enjoyment is half disappointment
To that we mean or would have in this world.
And there were many strange and sudden lights
Beckoned him towards them; they were wreckers’ lights:
But he shunned these, and righted when she rose,
Moon of his life, that ebbed and flowed with her.
A sea of sorrow struck him, but he held
On; dashed all sorrow from him as a bark
Spray from her bow bounding; he lifted up
His head, and the deep ate his shadow merely.
A poet not in love is out at sea;
He must have a lay-flgure.
I meant not
To screen, but to describe this friend of mine.
Describe the lady, too; of course she was
Above all praise and all comparison.
Why, true. Her heart was all humanity,
Her soul all God’s; in spirit and in form,
Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink
Of seashells, the world’s sweetest tint, as though
She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped
In silver dew; she spake as with the voice
Of spheral harmony which greets the soul
When at the hour of death the saved one knows
His sister angels near; her eye was as
The golden pane the setting sun doth just
Imblaze; which shows, till Heaven comes down again,
All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark,
Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave
Might search for gold, and searching find.
Enough!—
I have her picture perfect;—quite enough.
What were his griefs?
He who hath most of heart
Knows most of sorrow; not a thing he saw
Nor did, but was to him, at times, a woe;
At times indifferent, at times a joy.
Folly and sin and memory make a curse
Wherewith the future fires may vie in vain.
The sorrows of the soul are graver still.
Where and when did he study? Did he mix
Much with the world, or was he a recluse?
He had no times of study, and no place;
All places and all times to him were one.
His soul was like the wind-harp, which he loved,
And sounded only when the spirit blew.
Sometime in feasts and follies, for he went
Life-like through all things; and his thoughts then rose
Like sparkles in the bright wine, brighter still.
Sometimes in dreams, and then the shining words
Would wake him in the dark before his face.
All things talked thoughts to him. The sea went mad,
And the wind whined as ’twere in pain, to show
Each one his meaning; and the awful sun
Thundered his thoughts into him; and at night
The stars would whisper theirs, the moon sigh hers.
The spirit speaks all tongues and understands;
Both God’s and angel’s, man’s and all dumb things,
Down to an insect’s inarticulate hum
And an inaudible organ. And it was
The spirit spake to him of everything;
And with the moony eyes like those we see,
Thousands on thousands, crowding air in dreams,
Looked into him its mighty meanings, till
He felt the power fulfil him, as a cloud
In every fibre feels the forming wind.
He spake the world’s one tongue; in earth and Heaven
There is but one, it is the word of truth.
To him the eye let out its hidden meaning;
And young and old made their hearts over to him;
And thoughts were told to him as unto none
Save one who heareth said and unsaid, all.
And his heart held these as a grate its gleeds,
Where others warm them.
I would I had known him.
All things were inspiration unto him;
Wood, wold, hill, field, sea, city, solitude,
And crowds and streets, and man where’er he was;
And the blue eye of God which is above us;
Brook-bounded pine spinnies where spirits flit:
And haunted pits the rustic hurries by,
Where cold wet ghosts sit ringing jingling bells;
Old orchards’ leaf-roofed aisles, and red cheeked load;
And the blood-coloured tears which yew trees weep
O’er churchyard graves, like murderers remorseful.
The dark green rings where fairies sit and sup,
Crushing the violet dew in the acorn cup:
Where by his new-made bride the bride-groom sips,
The white moon shimmering on their longing lips;
The large o’erloaded wealthy-looking wains
Quietly swaggering home through leafy lanes,
Leaving on all low branches as they come,
Straws for the birds, ears of the harvest home.
Summer’s warm soil or winter’s cruel sky,
Clear, cold and icy-blue like a sea-eagle’s eye;
All things to Him bare thoughts of minstrelsy,
He drew his light from that he was amidst,
As doth a lamp from air which hath itself
Matter of light although it show it not. His
Was but the power to light what might be lit.
He met a muse in every lovely maid;
And learned a song from every lip he loved.
But his heart ripened most ’neath southern eyes,
Which sunned their sweets into him all day long:
For fortune called him southwards, towards the sun.
Did he love music?
The only music he
Or learned or listened to was from the lips
Of her he loved, and that he learned by heart.
Albeit, she would try to teach him tunes,
And put his fingers on the keys; but he
Could only see her eyes, and hear her voice,
And feel her touch.
Why, he was much like thee.
We had some points in common.
Was he proud?
Lowliness is the base of every virtue:
And he who goes the lowest, builds the safest.
My God keeps all his pity for the proud.
Was he world-wise?
The only wonder is
He knew so much, leading the life he did.
Yet it may seem less strange when we think back,
That we, in the dark chamber of the heart,
Sitting alone, see the world tabled to us;
And the world wonders how recluses know
So much, and
