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POEMS.
They lie in graves, the saints who knew this tale,
The King, the Bishop, and the Seneschal,
And he who doubted,—rest their souls in peace!—
And even mention of their names men cease
To make. But, knowing all, as they must know,
Of God, who roam his universes through,
Untrammelled spirits, they could tell to men
To-day no deeper truth than was told then,
To cheer and comfort him who fighteth well
To save a heart besieged like La Rochelle.
The King, the Bishop, and the Seneschal,
And he who doubted,—rest their souls in peace!—
And even mention of their names men cease
To make. But, knowing all, as they must know,
Of God, who roam his universes through,
Untrammelled spirits, they could tell to men
To-day no deeper truth than was told then,
To cheer and comfort him who fighteth well
To save a heart besieged like La Rochelle.
FORM.
HIDDEN secret of all things!Thy triumph, most triumphant, brings
No sound of syllable of name
To mark the law by which it came;
The subtle point of difference,
Which made the joy of joy intense,
The grief of grief too great to bear,
Beauty than beauty's self more fair.
No skill does more, at best, than work
Blindly, in hope to find where lurk
Thy undiscovered charm and spell;
No prophecies thine hour foretell;
No hindrances thine hour avert;
No purpose brings thee good or hurt;
Thy life knows not of wish or will;
Inherent growths thy growth fulfil.
Blindly, in hope to find where lurk
Thy undiscovered charm and spell;
No prophecies thine hour foretell;
No hindrances thine hour avert;
No purpose brings thee good or hurt;
Thy life knows not of wish or will;
Inherent growths thy growth fulfil.
