Part 23

The inner self he guarded from approach, He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine; He guarded it with silence and reserve; Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass Beyond the portals; and his face was sad. But whoso entered there -- and few were they -- So very few -- so very, very few, They never did forget; they said: "How strange!" They murmured still: "How strange! how strangely strange!" They went their ways, but wore a lifted look, And higher meanings came to common words, And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones; And, near or far, they never did forget The "Shadow and the Shrine"; his face was sad.

He was not young nor old -- yet he was both; Nor both by turns, but always both at once; For youth and age commingled in his ways, His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts, The child played thro' his words; his face was sad.

I one day asked his age; he smiled and said: "The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast, Just born to-day, is not as young as I; The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms -- An acorn cradled ages long ago -- Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." It was his way -- he always answered thus, But when he did his face was very sad.

* * * * *

Spirit Song

Thou wert once the purest wave Where the tempests roar; Thou art now a golden wave On the golden shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Thou wert once the bluest wave Shadows e'er hung o'er; Thou art now the brightest wave On the brightest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Thou wert once the gentlest wave Ocean ever bore; Thou art now the fairest wave On the fairest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Whiter foam than thine, O wave, Wavelet never wore, Stainless wave; and now you lave The far and stormless shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Who bade thee go, O bluest wave, Beyond the tempest's roar? Who bade thee flow, O fairest wave, Unto the golden shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who waved a hand, O purest wave? A hand that blessings bore, And wafted thee, O whitest wave, Unto the fairest shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who winged thy way, O holy wave, In days and days of yore? And wept the words: "O winsome wave, This earth is not thy shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave -- The strength a great soul wore -- And said: "Float up to God! my wave, His heart shall be thy shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Who said to thee, O poor, weak wave: "Thy wail shall soon be o'er, Float on to God, and leave me, wave, Upon this rugged shore!" Ever -- ever -- evermore?

And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, Dost dream of days of yore? Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, Upon the golden shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore?

Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, Beyond the wild storm's roar! I watch amid the storm, bright wave, Like rock upon the shore; Ever -- ever -- evermore!

Sing at the feet of God, white wave, Song sweet as one of yore! I would not bring thee back, heart wave, To break upon this shore, Ever -- ever -- evermore!

* * * * *

"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; My mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone; Just like a temple when the priest has gone, And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults Are buried deep in silence; when the lights That flashed on altars died away in dark, And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom Which seem to linger in the holy place -- The shadows of the sinners who passed there, And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon The marble floor memorials of their tears."

And while he spake, his words sank low and low, Until they hid themselves in some still depth He would not open; and his face was sad.

When he spoke thus, his very gentleness Passed slowly from him, and his look, so mild, Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. His words, as tender as a rose's smile, Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. Who knows? perhaps it did!

But he would pass His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, And then the olden gentleness, like light Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, Would tremble on his face, and he would look More gentle then than ever, and his tone Would sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed.

I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved And darkened; ah! his face was like a tomb That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, And all the smiles arose as from the dead, And wore the glory of an Easter morn; And passed beneath the sceptre of a hope Which came from some far region of his heart, Came up into his eyes, and reigned a queen. I marveled much; he answered to my look With all his own, and wafted me these words:

"There are transitions in the lives of all. There are transcendent moments when we stand In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, And weak with very strength of human love We fain would build our tabernacles there; And, Peter-like, for very human joy We cry aloud: `'Tis good that we are here;' Swift are these moments, like the smile of God, Which glorifies a shadow and is gone.

"And then we stand upon another mount -- Dark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there For awful hours, to make us there His own In Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way. We wish to cling to Thabor; He says: `No.' And what He says is best because most true. We fain would fly from Calvary; He says: `No.' And it is true because it is the best. And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same.

"They lie apart, distinct and separate, And yet -- strange mystery! -- they are the same. For Calvary is a Thabor in the dark, And Thabor is a Calvary in the light. It is the mystery of Holy Christ! It is the mystery of you and me! Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, And, like the shadows of a dial, we Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours The sun tells brightly in the sinless skies. Dost understand?" I did not understand -- Or only half; his face was very sad. "Dost thou not understand me? Then your life Is shallow as a brook that brawls along Between two narrow shores; you never wept -- You never wore great clouds upon your brow As mountains wear them; and you never wore Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset skies Oft wear them; and your lips -- they never sighed Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul; You never reached your arms a-broad -- a-high -- To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky. Life, only life, can understand a life; Depth, only depth, can understand the deep. The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face Can never learn the story of the sea."

* * * * *

One day we strolled together to the sea. Gray evening and the night had almost met, We walked between them, silent, to the shore. The feet of weird faced waves ran up the beach Like children in mad play, then back again As if the spirit of the land pursued; Then up again -- and farther -- and they flung White, foamy arms around each other's neck; Then back again with sudden rush and shout, As if the sea, their mother, called them home; Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed Away, and farther up the beach, and fell For utter weariness; and loudly sobbed For strength to rise and flow back to the deep. But all in vain, for other waves swept on And trampled them; the sea cried out in grief, The gray beach laughed and clasped them to the sands. It was the flood-tide and the even-tide -- Between the evening and the night we walked -- We walked between the billows and the beach, We walked between the future and the past, Down to the sea we twain had strolled -- to part.