Part 23

How the Children leave us: and no traces Linger of that smiling angel band; Gone, for ever gone; and in their places, Weary men and anxious women stand.

Yet we have some little ones, still ours; They have kept the baby smile we know, Which we kissed one day and hid with flowers, On their dead white faces, long ago.

When our Joy is lost--and life will take it-- Then no memory of the past remains; Save with some strange, cruel sting, to make it Bitterness beyond all present pains.

Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrow Still the radiant shadow, fond regret: We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow, Joy that he has taken, living yet.

Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it, Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own? Any cold and cruel dawn may show it, Shattered, desecrated, overthrown.

Only the dead Hearts forsake us never; Death's last kiss has been the mystic sign Consecrating Love our own for ever, Crowning it eternal and divine.

So when Fate would fain besiege our city, Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall, Death the Angel, comes in love and pity, And to save our treasures, claims them all.

VERSE: A WOMAN'S ANSWER

I will not let you say a Woman's part Must be to give exclusive love alone; Dearest, although I love you so, my heart Answers a thousand claims beside your own.

I love--what do I not love? earth and air Find space within my heart, and myriad things You would not deign to heed, are cherished there, And vibrate on its very inmost strings.

I love the summer with her ebb and flow Of light, and warmth, and music that have nurst Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you know It was in summer that I saw you first.

I love the winter dearly too, . . . but then I owe it so much; on a winter's day, Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again, When you had been those weary months away.

I love the Stars like friends; so many nights I gazed at them, when you were far from me, Till I grew blind with tears . . . those far-off lights Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see.

I love the Flowers; happy hours lie Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear: but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden Past.

I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise Seems like a crown upon my Life,--to make It better worth the giving, and to raise Still nearer to your own the heart you take.

I love all good and noble souls;--I heard One speak of you but lately, and for days Only to think of it, my soul was stirred In tender memory of such generous praise.

I love all those who love you; all who owe Comfort to you: and I can find regret Even for those poorer hearts who once could know, And once could love you, and can now forget.

Well, is my heart so narrow--I, who spare Love for all these? Do I not even hold My favourite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold?

The Poets that you used to read to me While summer twilights faded in the sky; But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, Because--because--do you remember why?

Will you be jealous? Did you guess before I loved so many things?--Still you the best:- Dearest, remember that I love you more, Oh, more a thousand times than all the rest!

VERSE: THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL

FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND

The fettered Spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release, For the Great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease; And the name of these brief respites Is called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once--so runs the Legend-- When the Archangel came And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name; One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke; So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke:-

"I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain; I prize our Lady's blessing Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me, Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair.