Part 3

And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired, of the Human, And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar And I heard a voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And above me a voice said: "Be mine." And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo -- "My heart shall be Thine."

Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep -- and I dream -- and I pray. But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, Ascendeth to God night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, A message of Peace they may bring.

But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley -- Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; They pass through the Valley like virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word!

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

Reverie ["Only a few more years!"]

Only a few more years! Weary years! Only a few more tears! Bitter tears! And then -- and then -- like other men, I cease to wander, cease to weep, Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep; And out of the day and into the night, Into the dark and out of the bright I go, and Death shall veil my face, The feet of the years shall fast efface My very name, and every trace I leave on earth; for the stern years tread -- Tread out the names of the gone and dead! And then, ah! then, like other men, I close my eyes and go to sleep, Only a few, one hour, shall weep: Ah! me, the grave is dark and deep!

Alas! Alas! How soon we pass! And ah! we go So far away; When go we must, From the light of Life, and the heat of strife, To the peace of Death, and the cold, still dust, We go -- we go -- we may not stay, We travel the lone, dark, dreary way; Out of the day and into the night, Into the darkness, out of the bright. And then, ah! then, like other men, We close our eyes and go to sleep; We hush our hearts and go to sleep; Only a few, one hour, shall weep: Ah! me, the grave is lone and deep!

I saw a flower, at morn, so fair; I passed at eve, it was not there. I saw a sunbeam, golden bright, I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud, And I saw night Digging the grave of day; And day took off her golden crown, And flung it sorrowfully down. Ah! day, the Sun's fair bride! At twilight moaned and died. And so, alas! like day we pass: At morn we smile, At eve we weep, At morn we wake, In night we sleep. We close our eyes and go to sleep: Ah! me, the grave is still and deep!

But God is sweet. My mother told me so, When I knelt at her feet Long -- so long -- ago; She clasped my hands in hers. Ah! me, that memory stirs My soul's profoundest deep -- No wonder that I weep. She clasped my hands and smiled, Ah! then I was a child -- I knew not harm -- My mother's arm Was flung around me; and I felt That when I knelt To listen to my mother's prayer, God was with my mother there.

Yea! "God is sweet!" She told me so; She never told me wrong; And through my years of woe Her whispers soft, and sad, and low, And sweet as Angel's song, Have floated like a dream.

And, ah! to-night I seem A very child in my old, old place, Beneath my mother's blessed face, And through each sweet remembered word, This sweetest undertone is heard: "My child! my child! our God is sweet, In Life -- in Death -- kneel at his feet -- Sweet in gladness, sweet in gloom, Sweeter still beside the tomb." Why should I wail? Why ought I weep? The grave -- it is not dark and deep; Why should I sigh? Why ought I moan? The grave -- it is not still and lone; Our God is sweet, our grave is sweet, We lie there sleeping at His feet, Where the wicked shall from troubling cease, And weary hearts shall rest in peace!

Lines -- 1875

Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, And ask of them why do they sigh? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er, But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, And they're sighing to-day, and they'll sigh evermore. Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.

Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, When the night stars are gleaming on high, And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. Ask them what ails them: they never reply; They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.

Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, When it passes and murmurs "Good-bye." The dear little breeze -- how it wishes to stay Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play; How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way. Ask it what ails it: it will not reply; Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The breeze will not answer you; neither shall I.

Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, When the shout of the storm rends the sky; They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, And they groan like the ghosts in the "land of despair". Ask them what ails them: they never reply; Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I.

Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, Or list where the rivers rush by; The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide, Are moaning forever wherever they glide; Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. On -- sad voiced -- they flow, but they never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I.

Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, And the voices that sound in the sky; Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. They sigh -- sigh forever -- but never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? Their lips will not answer you; neither shall I.

A Memory

One bright memory shines like a star In the sky of my spirit forever; And over my pathway it flashes afar A radiance that perishes never.

One bright memory -- only one; And I walk by the light of its gleaming; It brightens my days, and when days are done It shines in the night o'er my dreaming.

One bright memory, whose golden rays Illumine the gloom of my sorrows, And I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze In the shadows of all my to-morrows.

One bright memory; when I am sad I lift up my eyes to its shining, And the clouds pass away, and my spirit grows glad, And my heart hushes all its repining.

One bright memory; others have passed Back into the shadows forever; But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, Sheds a light that will pass away never.