128
CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY.
That brightens at her entrance—slow lets fall
A word or two of wise simplicity,
Then goes, and at her going all seems dark.
Little she knows this: little thinks each brow
Lightens, each heart grows purer with her eyes,
Good, honest eyes—clear, upward, righteous eyes,
That look as if they saw the dim unseen,
And learnt from thence their deep compassionate calm.
Why do I precious hold this friend of mine?
Why in our talks, our quiet fireside talks,
When we, two earnest travellers through the dark,
Grasp at the guiding threads that homeward lead,
Seems it another soul than hers looks out
From these her eyes?—until I ofttimes start
And quiver, as when some soft ignorant hand
Touches the barb hid in a long-healed wound.
Yet still no blame, but thanks to thee, dear friend,
Ay, even when we wander back at eve,
Thy careless arm loose linked within my own—
The same height as I gaze down—nay, the hair
Her very color—fluttering 'neath the stars—
The same large stars which lit that earlier world.
I have another love—whose dewy looks
Are fresh with life's young dawn. I prophesy
The streak of light now trembling on the hills
Will broaden out into a glorious day.
Thou sweet one, meek as good, and good as fair,
A word or two of wise simplicity,
Then goes, and at her going all seems dark.
Little she knows this: little thinks each brow
Lightens, each heart grows purer with her eyes,
Good, honest eyes—clear, upward, righteous eyes,
That look as if they saw the dim unseen,
And learnt from thence their deep compassionate calm.
Why do I precious hold this friend of mine?
Why in our talks, our quiet fireside talks,
When we, two earnest travellers through the dark,
Grasp at the guiding threads that homeward lead,
Seems it another soul than hers looks out
From these her eyes?—until I ofttimes start
And quiver, as when some soft ignorant hand
Touches the barb hid in a long-healed wound.
Yet still no blame, but thanks to thee, dear friend,
Ay, even when we wander back at eve,
Thy careless arm loose linked within my own—
The same height as I gaze down—nay, the hair
Her very color—fluttering 'neath the stars—
The same large stars which lit that earlier world.
I have another love—whose dewy looks
Are fresh with life's young dawn. I prophesy
The streak of light now trembling on the hills
Will broaden out into a glorious day.
Thou sweet one, meek as good, and good as fair,
