What was it in his smile that stirred
My soul to pity! When I drew
More near it seemed as if I heard
The broken echo of a tune
Learned in some far and happy June.
His lips were parted, but unmoved
By words. He sang as dreamers do,
And not as if he heard and loved
The song he sang: I hear it now!
He stood beside the level brook,
Nor quenched his thirst, nor bathed his brow,
Nor from his back the burden shook.
He stood, and yet he did not rest;
His eyes climbed up in aimless quest,
Then close did to that mirror bow—
And, looking down, I saw in place
Of his, my own familiar face.
III—"COME TO ME YE WHO SUFFER"
Come to me ye who suffer, for to all
I am a brother now! 'T was not in vain
I saw the face of Sorrow; she who slain
Yet lives; whose voice when she doth weep and call
Is silent. When she weeps? Nay, nay! the pall
Is on her tears too—they are dead. The rain
Is molten-hot, dust-dry from her dull pain,
Like ashes from the burning heavens that fall.
I know the world-wide, lovely, living lie;
I know the truth that better were unknown;
I know the joyful laugh that is a cry
Torn from a heart whence hope and faith have flown,
And yet beats on, and will not, dare not die.
I know the anguish without word or moan.
