Poems (Bushnell)/Outside

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

VIII
OUTSIDE

Down the dark the snow is whirling,
 Driven blindly through the gloom;
   All its white
   Is lost to-night,
As some unseen force were hurling,
 Sinking it to hidden doom.
And the snow in vain, in vain,
Flutters upward in its pain;
It will fall to earth and stain.
 Impulse, flutter, wavering, fall,
 I, alas! have known them all;
 Dropped my little trembling light,
 Lost the lustre of my white,
 Find no longer rest or goal
 For my tired feet or soul,
 In a cloud of blind despair
 Turn as gladly here as there.

In yon firelight, brightly gleaming,
 Little phantoms, rosy red,
   Turn and meet
   With dancing feet.
Ah! the vision sets me dreaming,
 Till I wish that I were dead,
Of a child that years ago
Danced within the heartsome glow,
Light and pure as flake of snow;
And this pictured shadow-dance
Seems that childhood seen in trance.
 Dancers sweet! you look divine
 To these darkened eyes of mine,
 And I gaze upon you, even
 As an outcast into Heaven;
 So will shadowy splendors fall
 Far outside the jasper wall.

Hark! the vesper-bells are ringing
 In the minster's solemn height.
   "Come," they say,
   "O, come and pray!"
Through the great doors slowly swinging,
 'Twixt the darkness and the light,
I can see the white-robed choir,
And the candles' chastened fire
Up the arches pale aspire,
And the sculptured angel stand,
Holding out his stainless hand.
 Should I to the altar steal,
 Kneel where happy maidens kneel,
 Like that one with upturned face,
 Meeting Heaven's descending grace,
 Hands crossed peaceful on her breast,
 In a calm of prayerful rest,
 Would her peace encircle me?
 Would her freedom set me free?
 No, fair saint, the peace is thine,
 And the dark despair is mine.

Ah! these souls in harbor lying,
 Anchored on a sheltered tide,
   Only know
   Life's even flow;
Little reck of storms wild flying,
 Or of waves that beat outside.
Stainless hand but nerveless arm
Cannot snatch a soul from harm,
Or make hearts benumbed grow warm.
 Lord, thy purity is strong,
 Reaching to the cure of wrong:
 Search, yea, rend my heart and soul,
 If such sharpness can make whole;
 Or, if far too low I stand
 For the dealing of thy hand,
 Must I then be left outside?
 O, my God! Thy heavens are wide!
 Send some angel, pure and fleet,
 Let him lift me to thy feet,
 There abased and dumb to kneel,
 Still contented, might I feel
 That, in some poor place apart,
 I was not outside thy heart.
 Something whispers to my fear,
 Can it be that thou art near?
 Are thy feet here in the snow,
 Wounded for me long ago?
 Let me clasp them, lying low.
 I have found the open door,
 And am left outside no more.