REUBEN
Foibles, and left large virtues out of view.
Clear sight is often near sight; specks of dust
Are duly through a microscope discern’d—
Not stars: nor measurable at one sharp glance
Are the immense horizon lines of Truth.
But she was vigorous, skilful, loyal, sure,
None ever master’d Sarah, saving one
That wanted wit—her brother; him she serv’d
And humour’d with sweet patience until Death
Emptied her clasping and reluctant hands.
And, partly for her well-to-do sleek state,
Her town-bred and authoritative air,
Part for a certain piquant zest she had
In telling vivid tales of love and blood,
Nay, somewhat for her very sharpness’ sake
(Like children, a severity deserv’d,
A touch assur’d, respecting): readily
Her old-time village neighbours welcom’d her,
And felt her presence lent a spice to things,
Whenever (’twas not often) she might choose
Touch and talk with them.
But ’twas otherwise
With Reuben. When the late October days
Droop dull low heavens o’er the unsunn’d down,
And rhyme grey melancholy leagues above
With grey and melancholy leagues below—
Still the flowers tarry; and the blank outspread
Of lonely landscape, separate step by step,
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