Poems (Van Rensselaer)/My House

by Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer

IN MEMORIAM

MY HOUSE (R. W. G., November, 1909.)

Here in this house I raised anew
The pillars of my home, and round their base
That cincture of the spirit drew
Which sayeth, "This shall be my own, my place
Of safety, quietness, and ease,
Wherein, at peace,
My soul shall make its quest
For the soul's good and the heart's best."

Old was the house, yet new to me and mine—our ways
Led not unto its gate in other days;
Only an empty spaciousness awaited me,
Unwarmed, untapestried, of wont or memory.
But friendly stores I brought
Of things inanimate that take
With lengthened habitude a semblant life, and make
Chambers of use and charm from alien vacancy;
And feet there lacked not that in friendship sought
My threshold, nor loved eyes and voices to desire
The happy voice and radiance of my fire.

And here I lived content. Yet when I sat alone,
Or trod the twilit stair, or from my bed
Watched how the winter dawning shone,
Something I missed that I had known
Of blessedness beneath another roof:
It seemed they held sometimes aloof,
The dear, accustomed, necessary dead,
Who walk, half-felt, beside our daily steps and keep,
Almost perceived and almost audible,
Such vigil by our pillow that we stay from sleep
Lest dreaming dreams be not so full
Of dreamèd tenderness.
My heart-beats knew them still, my inward ear still heard
The low nocturnal word,
And, through the daytime sound and stress,
The faint companionable tread;
But not so oft, ah, not so oft or clearly well
As in those walls where we had used to dwell;
For the beloved and loving dead
(Or so say our immeasurable desires)
Seeking the souls they need
On dim and wavering paths, find oftenest those that lead
To the known roof-tree, the old lights and fires.

In this my house surely there did befall,
A-many times ere it was mine, the ecstasies
Of sacred joys and agonies,
Bridal and birth and burial;
And gentle spirits of that time must come and go—
Yet not for me, yet not for me to know!
Strangers, they seek their own; nor could they guide to me
My own from paradise's far immensity.
But, friend who chose, unwittingly,
This house to be thy last, thy visible last,
Abode, and from its harboring passed
To the invisible haven of the after-death,
Dear friend, thy coming and thy faring-forth
Have warmed, have vivified, these mute indifferent walls,
Filling them with the passionate breath
Of heart to yearning heart that calls,
With deep vitalities of love and pain.
—Is it for this alone they come again,
My best-beloved, to pillow and to hearth
As they were wont to come,
Frequent and close as to their long-familiar home?
Or has thy far-flown spirit given
New sign of the old amity from the paths of heaven?
Does the affection that so long a while
Endured between my dead
And thee and me illume, as with thy voice and smile,
The far mysterious track
Their homing feet must tread?
They know, thou knowest, the incommunicable way.
I know, I only know, that in this day
Of grief I yet am glad, for thou hast led them back.

And where we sat together, by my fire,
For thy last hours
Of heard and answered converse, heart's desire
Shall find thee too when evening grows
To deep tranquillity, and vesper flowers—
Remembrance, love, and gratitude—unclose.