endless night? or shall I, in some new dawn, and by some unimagined miracle not less than that which brought me here, wander, with those that led me once, and those I led, hand claspt in hand, as of old, by the murmuring waters and under the singing trees of the ever-wonderful, the never-ending Valley of Life?
TO ONE IMPATIENT OF FORM IN ART
I
Chide not the poet that he strives for beauty,
If still forthright he chants the thing he would—
If still he knows, nor can escape, the dire
Necessity and burden of straight speech;
Not his the fault should music haunt the stroke,
When to the marrow cleaves the lyric knife.
Who poured the violent ocean, and who called
Earthquake and tempest and the crash of doom,
He spread the sea all beautiful at dawn,
And curved the bright bow 'gainst the black, spent storm;
He framed these late and lovely violets
That under autumn leaves surprise the heart.
Blame not the seeker of beauty if his soul
Seeks it, in reverent and determined quest,
And in the sacred love of loveliness
Which God, the all-giver, gave—and satisfies;
Fearing lest he match not life s poignant breath
And the keen beauty of the blossoming day.
