Part 38

Still art thou blind! But at His touching shall the darkness bud And bloom to rosy morn. And even now, Were I to snap a twig ’twould bleed and die. See ye; ’tis done! Look ye! Ye believe but what ye see: Here within thy very hand Thou holdest Doubt’s undoing. I bid ye look upon the bud Already gathered ’neath the tender bark. The sun’s set and rise hath coaxed it forth. Thee canst see the rogue hath stolen red And put it to its heart. And here Aneath the snow the grass doth love the earth And nestles to her breast. I stand me here, and lo, the Spring hath broke! The dark doth slip away to hide, And flowering, singing, sighing, loving Spring Is here!

Dreamer: Aye, thou art indeed A wonder-worker in the night! A black pall, a freezing blast, An unbroken path—and thou Wouldst have me then to prate o’ Spring, And pluck a bud where dark doth hide the bush! Who cometh from the thicket higher there?

Phantom: ’Tis Doubt to meet thee, friend!

Dreamer: Who art thou? I fain would flee, And yet I fear to leave lest I be lost. I hate thee and thy weary task!

Phantom: Nay, brother, thy lips do spell, But couldst thee read their words aright Thee wouldst meet again with Doubt. Come! We journey on unto the cot Beloved the most by me. I bid thee Let thy heart to warm within thy breast. A thawing melteth frozen Hope. See how, below, the sea hath veiled Her secret held so close, And murmured only to the winds Who woo her ever and anon. The waves do lap them, hungry for the sands. Careful! Lest the sun’s pale rise Should blind thee with its light. A shaft to put it through The darkness of thy soul must needs But be a glimmering to blind. Step ye to the hearthstone then, And set thee there a flame anew. I bid ye read again The folding of the smoke.

Dreamer: ’Tis done, thou fiend! A pretty play for fools, indeed. I swear me that ’tis not For loving of the task I builded it, But for the warming of its glow.

Phantom: In truth ye speak. But read!

Dreamer: I see a hag whose brow Doth wrinkle like a summer sea. For do I look unto the sea At Beauty’s own fair form, It writheth to a twisted shape, And I do doubt me of her loveliness. The haggard visage of the crone I now behold, doth set me doubting Of mine eye, for dimples seem To flutter ’neath the wrinkled cheek.

Phantom: So, then, thee believest But what thine eyes behold! Thee findest then Thy seeing in a sorry plight. I marvel at thy wisdom, lad. Look ye anew. Mayhap thee then Canst coax the crone away.

Dreamer: Enough! The morn hath kissed the night adieu, And even while I prate A redwing crimsoneth the snow in flight. Kindled tinder smoldereth away, And I do strain me to its fold. I glut me of the loveliness I there behold, For from the writhing stream a sprite is born Whose beauteous form bedazzles me, And she doth point me To the golding gray of morn. The sea Is singing, singing her unto my soul. I dreamed she sighed, but waked to hear her sing. I hear thee, Phantom, bidding me on, on! But morn hath stolen dreams away. I strain me to the hills to trace our path, And lo, unbroken is the snow, And cots have melted with the light, And yet, methinks a murmuring doth come From out the echoes of the night, That hid them ’neath the crannies of the hills. Life! Life! I lead thee on! And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!

EPILOGUE.

Thick stands the hill in garb of fir and snow. The Lady of the Winter’s Knight hath danced Her weary, and stretched her in her purity, To cover aching wounds of Winter’s overloving woo.

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“And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!” plainly meaning an active doubt that searches for the truth and finds it. But she personifies Doubt in another and more forbidding form in this:

Like to a thief who wrappeth him Within the night-tide’s robe, So standeth the specter o’ the Earth; Yea, he doth robe him o’ the Earth’s fair store. Yea, he decketh in the star-hung purple o’ the eve, And reacheth from out the night unto the morn, And wringeth from her waking all her gold, And at his touching, lo, the stars are dust, And morn’s gold but heat’s glow, and ne’er The golden blush of His own metal store.

Yea, he strideth then Upon the flower-hung couches of the field, And traileth him thereon his robe, And lo, the flowers do die of thirst And parch of scoarching of his breath. Yea, and ’mid the musics of the earth he strideth him, And full-songed throats are mute. Yea, music dieth of his luring glance. And e’en the love of earth he seeketh out And turneth it unto a folly-play. Yea, beneath his glance, the fairy frost Upon the love sprite’s wing Doth flutter, as a dust, and drop, and leave But bruised and broken bearers for His store.

Yea, and ’mid man’s day he ever strideth him And layeth low man’s reasoning. His robes Are hung of all the earth’s most loved. From off the flowers their fresh; from off the day The fairness of her hours. For dark, and hid Beneath his cloak, he steppeth ever, And doth hiss his name to thee— Doubt.

I have said that the message of Patience Worth contained a revelation, a religion and a promise. The revelation is too obvious to need a pointer. In the preceding chapter were presented the elements of the religion that she reveals, with which should be included the unfaltering faith expressed in these poems. Love and Faith—these are the two Graces upon whom, to personify them, all her work is rested, and from them spring the promise she conveys. That promise has to do with the hereafter, and Patience knows the human attitude in relation to that universal problem, and she gives courage to the shrinking heart in this poem on the fear of death:

I stride abroad before my brothers like a roaring lion, Yet at even’s close from whence cometh the icy hand That clutcheth at my heart and maketh me afraid— The slipping of myself away, I know not whither? And lo, I fall atremble. When I would grasp a straw, ’tis then I find it not. Can I then trust me on this journey lone To country I deem peopled, but know not? My very heart declareth faith, yet hath not thine Been touched and chilled by this same phantom? Ah, through the granite sips the lichen— And hast thou not a long dark journey made? Why fear? As cloud wreaths fade From spring’s warm smile, so shall fear Be put to flight by faith.

I pluck me buds of varied hue and choose the violet To weave a garland for my loved and best. I search for bloom among the rocks And find but feathery plume. I weave, and lo, the blossoms fade Before I reach the end, And faded lie amid my tears— And yet I weave and weave. I search for jewels ’neath the earth, And find them at the dawn, Besprinkled o’er the rose and leaf, And showered by the sparrow’s wing, Who seeketh ’mid the dew-wet vine A harbor for her home. I search for truth along the way And find but dust and web, And in the smile of infant lips I know myself betrayed. I watch the swallow skim across the blue To homelands of the South, And ah, the gnawing at my heart doth cease; For how he wings and wings To lands he deemeth peopled by his brothers, Whose song he hears in flight! Not skimming on the lake’s fair breast is he, But winging on and on, And dim against the feathery cloud He fades into the blue. I stand with withered blossoms crushed, And weave and weave and weave.

This is Patience’s answer to the eternal question:

Can I then trust me on this journey lone To country I deem peopled, but know not?

It is the cry of him who believes and yet doubts, and Patience points to the swallow winging across the blue “to lands he deemeth peopled with his brothers” who have gone on before. In imagination he can hear their song in the home lands of the South, and though he cannot see them, and cannot have had word from them, he knows they are there, and he does not skim uncertainly about the lake, but with unfaltering faith “wings him on and on” until—

Dim against the feathery cloud He fades into the blue.

But Patience does not content herself with appeals to faith, eloquent as they may be. While her communications are always clothed in figures of speech, they are sometimes more definite in statement than in the lines which have been thus far presented. In the prose poem which follows, she asks and answers the question in a way that can leave no doubt of her meaning:

“Shall I arise and know thee, brother, when like a bubble I am blown into Eternity from this pipe of clay? Or shall I burst and float my atoms in a joyous spray at the first beholding of this home prepared for thee and me, and shall we together mingle our joys in one supreme joy in Him? It matters not, beloved, so comfort thee. For should the blowing be the end, what then? Hath not thy pack been full, and mine? We are o’erweary with the work of living, and sinking to oblivion would be rest. Yet sure as sun shall rise, my dust shall be unloosed, and blow into new fields of new days. I see full fields yet to be harvested, and I am weary. I see fresh business of living, work yet to be done, and I am weary. Oh, let me fold these tired hands and sleep. Beloved, I trust, and expect my trust, for ne’er yet did He fail.”

She puts this into the mouth of one who lives, but it is not merely an expression of faith; it is a positive assertion. “Yet sure as sun shall rise, my dust shall be unloosed, and blow into new fields of new days.”

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