"For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime? "Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— "Of something felt, like something here; Of something done I know not where; Such as no language may declare." The still voice laugh'd. “I talk," said he, "Not with thy dreams. Thy pain is a reality." Suffice it thee "But thou," said I, "hast miss'd thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensuc With this old soul in organs new? "Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death. "Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want." I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, "Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, On to God's house the people prest: Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome guest, One walk'd between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood And in their double love secure, These three made unity so sweet, I blest them, and they wander'd on: A second voice was at mine ear, A murmur, "Be of better cheer." As from some blissful neighbourhood, "I see the end, and know the good." A little hint to solace woe, Like an Eolian harp that wakes. Far thought with music that it makes: Such seem'd the whisper at my side: "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. "A hidden hope," the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in the hour To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, And forth into the fields I went, I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, I wonder'd, while I paced along: The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. So variously seem'd all things wrought, And wherefore rather I made choice |