The Earth Turns South/Romance
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ROMANCE
You cannot find Romance at home?
Her lonely opal trail you place
In some forgotten land,
Some dim, moon-shivering strand
Where waves unflesh their fangs of wanton foam?
In common things before your face
You find no swing to toss your spirit high
Into an unsoared sky?
Her lonely opal trail you place
In some forgotten land,
Some dim, moon-shivering strand
Where waves unflesh their fangs of wanton foam?
In common things before your face
You find no swing to toss your spirit high
Into an unsoared sky?
Any uncharted moment may open a door
Through which you pass, as in a golden glamor,
To a new world unguessed before:
The living room, with its friendly clamor,
Is an intense and passion-breathing place;
Your wife, the babies, your own face,
Shine with new meanings and new dignities;
Your pen, your work-stool, chisel, saw and hammer
Are live fresh marvels—do others touch such as these?
The brother, bronzed from sea-sun and salt air,
Has lesser passions, fighting the insensible ocean,
Than grip you everywhere;
And each new moment breeds its fresh emotion,
Its untapped flood of coldness or devotion,
Freezing or burning life to ice or cinder;
Your own soul's naked progress through the hours,
Its curious pligrimage through things that hinder,
That it cleaves as a light parts mistiness,
Old doubts seen clearly, new problems starkly seen,
Which must be met with undivided powers,—
Can misty, imagined land
Or night-dark visions, mean
So much as things at hand,
Tinily wondrous, intimately grand?
Through which you pass, as in a golden glamor,
To a new world unguessed before:
The living room, with its friendly clamor,
Is an intense and passion-breathing place;
Your wife, the babies, your own face,
Shine with new meanings and new dignities;
Your pen, your work-stool, chisel, saw and hammer
Are live fresh marvels—do others touch such as these?
The brother, bronzed from sea-sun and salt air,
Has lesser passions, fighting the insensible ocean,
Than grip you everywhere;
And each new moment breeds its fresh emotion,
Its untapped flood of coldness or devotion,
Freezing or burning life to ice or cinder;
Your own soul's naked progress through the hours,
Its curious pligrimage through things that hinder,
That it cleaves as a light parts mistiness,
Old doubts seen clearly, new problems starkly seen,
Which must be met with undivided powers,—
Can misty, imagined land
Or night-dark visions, mean
So much as things at hand,
Tinily wondrous, intimately grand?
The postman's casual whistle looses daily
Innumerable fancies; each greeting of a friend
Is only welcoming gaily
Another soul on travel, who may lend
Some of his clinging soul-dust to your own;
The vague caress you squander on a kitten,
The home-kiss—these unleash the self-same fire
That lifted Beatrice heaven-higher
And bared a queen's breast, where an asp had bitten.
Innumerable fancies; each greeting of a friend
Is only welcoming gaily
Another soul on travel, who may lend
Some of his clinging soul-dust to your own;
The vague caress you squander on a kitten,
The home-kiss—these unleash the self-same fire
That lifted Beatrice heaven-higher
And bared a queen's breast, where an asp had bitten.
And each one hurries, careless of his ticket's reading,
To the same city, with its numberless gates,
Choicelessly speeding
To the wild scattering destiny, that awaits
Body and soul, apprenticed to voyages deeper,
Further, more magical, than fantastic trips
On flying carpets, or the dream-voyage that whips
Capriciously the unresisting sleeper.
Perhaps it greets us, with the next vague glance,—
And we speak of Romance!
To the same city, with its numberless gates,
Choicelessly speeding
To the wild scattering destiny, that awaits
Body and soul, apprenticed to voyages deeper,
Further, more magical, than fantastic trips
On flying carpets, or the dream-voyage that whips
Capriciously the unresisting sleeper.
Perhaps it greets us, with the next vague glance,—
And we speak of Romance!