Poems of Henry Timrod [22]
holy love;
And always at your soul's demand A brother's, sister's heart and hand.
Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home;
And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends.
What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss?
And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face,
And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again,
And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray?
At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace,
Hath much to try a woman's heart, And you but play a painful part.
The world around, with little ruth, Still laughs at maids who have not youth,
And, right or wrong, the old maid rests The victim of its paltry jests,
And still is doomed to meet and bear Its pitying smile or furtive sneer.
These are indeed but petty things, And yet they touch some hearts like stings.
But I acquit you of the shame Of being unresisting game;
For you are of such tempered clay As turns far stronger shafts away,
And all that foes or fools could guide Would only curl that lip of pride.
How then, O weary one! explain The sources of that hidden pain?
Alas! you have divined at length How little you have used your strength,
Which, with who knows what human good, Lies buried in that maidenhood,
Where, as amid a field of flowers, You have but played with April showers.
Ah! we would wish the world less fair, If Spring alone adorned the year,
And Autumn came not with its fruit, And Autumn hymns were ever mute.
So I remark without surprise That, as the unvarying season flies,
From day to night and night to day, You sicken of your endless May.
In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss,
And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might.
Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin --
Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid --
You feel that you must pass from earth But half-acquainted with its worth,
And that within your heart are deeps In which a nobler woman sleeps;
That not the maiden, but the wife Grasps the whole lesson of a life,
While such as you but sit and dream Along the surface of its stream.
And doubtless sometimes, all unsought, There comes upon your hour of thought,
Despite the struggles of your will, A sense of something absent still;
And then you cannot help but yearn To love and be beloved in turn,
As they are loved, and love, who live As love were all that life could give;
And in a transient clasp or kiss Crowd an eternity of bliss;
They who of every mortal joy Taste always twice, nor feel them cloy,
Or, if woes come, in Sorrow's hour Are strengthened by a double power.
II
Here ends my feeble sketch of what Might, but will never be your lot;
And I foresee how oft these rhymes Shall make you smile in after-times.
If I have read your nature right, It only waits a spark of light;
And when that comes, as come it must, It will not fall on arid dust,
Nor yet on that which breaks to flame In the first blush of maiden shame;
But on a heart which, even at rest, Is warmer than an April nest,
Where, settling soft, that spark shall creep About as gently as a sleep;
Still stealing on with pace so slow Yourself will scarcely feel the glow,
Till after many and many a day, Although no gleam its course betray,
It shall attain the inmost shrine, And wrap it in a fire divine!
I know not when or whence indeed Shall fall and burst the burning seed,
But oh! once kindled, it will blaze, I know, forever! By its rays
You will perceive, with subtler eyes, The meaning in the earth and skies,
Which, with their animated chain Of grass and flowers, and sun and rain,
Of green below, and blue above, Are but a type of married love.
You will perceive that in the breast The germs of many virtues rest,
Which, ere they feel
And always at your soul's demand A brother's, sister's heart and hand.
Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home;
And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends.
What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss?
And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face,
And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again,
And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray?
At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace,
Hath much to try a woman's heart, And you but play a painful part.
The world around, with little ruth, Still laughs at maids who have not youth,
And, right or wrong, the old maid rests The victim of its paltry jests,
And still is doomed to meet and bear Its pitying smile or furtive sneer.
These are indeed but petty things, And yet they touch some hearts like stings.
But I acquit you of the shame Of being unresisting game;
For you are of such tempered clay As turns far stronger shafts away,
And all that foes or fools could guide Would only curl that lip of pride.
How then, O weary one! explain The sources of that hidden pain?
Alas! you have divined at length How little you have used your strength,
Which, with who knows what human good, Lies buried in that maidenhood,
Where, as amid a field of flowers, You have but played with April showers.
Ah! we would wish the world less fair, If Spring alone adorned the year,
And Autumn came not with its fruit, And Autumn hymns were ever mute.
So I remark without surprise That, as the unvarying season flies,
From day to night and night to day, You sicken of your endless May.
In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss,
And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might.
Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin --
Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid --
You feel that you must pass from earth But half-acquainted with its worth,
And that within your heart are deeps In which a nobler woman sleeps;
That not the maiden, but the wife Grasps the whole lesson of a life,
While such as you but sit and dream Along the surface of its stream.
And doubtless sometimes, all unsought, There comes upon your hour of thought,
Despite the struggles of your will, A sense of something absent still;
And then you cannot help but yearn To love and be beloved in turn,
As they are loved, and love, who live As love were all that life could give;
And in a transient clasp or kiss Crowd an eternity of bliss;
They who of every mortal joy Taste always twice, nor feel them cloy,
Or, if woes come, in Sorrow's hour Are strengthened by a double power.
II
Here ends my feeble sketch of what Might, but will never be your lot;
And I foresee how oft these rhymes Shall make you smile in after-times.
If I have read your nature right, It only waits a spark of light;
And when that comes, as come it must, It will not fall on arid dust,
Nor yet on that which breaks to flame In the first blush of maiden shame;
But on a heart which, even at rest, Is warmer than an April nest,
Where, settling soft, that spark shall creep About as gently as a sleep;
Still stealing on with pace so slow Yourself will scarcely feel the glow,
Till after many and many a day, Although no gleam its course betray,
It shall attain the inmost shrine, And wrap it in a fire divine!
I know not when or whence indeed Shall fall and burst the burning seed,
But oh! once kindled, it will blaze, I know, forever! By its rays
You will perceive, with subtler eyes, The meaning in the earth and skies,
Which, with their animated chain Of grass and flowers, and sun and rain,
Of green below, and blue above, Are but a type of married love.
You will perceive that in the breast The germs of many virtues rest,
Which, ere they feel