With joy that dulled me to the touch of scorn, I served;--not knowing that of all life's deeds Service was first; nor that high powers are born In humble uses. Fragrance-folding seeds Must so through flowers expand, Then die. God witness that I blessed the Hand Which laid upon my heart such golden needs!
And yet I felt, through all the blind, sweet ways Of life, for some clear shape its dreams to blend,-- Some thread of holy art, to knit the days Each unto each, and all to some fair end, Which, through unmarked removes, Should draw me upward, even as it behooves One whose deep spring-tides from His heart descend.
To swell some vast refrain beyond the sun, The very weed breathed music from its sod; And night and day in ceaseless antiphon Rolled off through windless arches in the broad Abyss.--Thou saw'st I, too, Would in my place have blent accord as true, And justified this great enshrining, God!
Dreams!--Stain it on the bending amethyst, That one who came with visions of the Prime For guide somehow her radiant pathway missed, And wandered in the darkest gulf of Time. No deed divine thenceforth Stood royal in its far-related worth; No god, in truth, might heal the wounded chime.
Oh, how? I darkly ask;--and if I dare Take up a thought from this tumultuous street To the forgotten Silence soaring there Above the hiving roofs, its calm depths meet My glance with no reply. Might I go back and spell this mystery In the new stillness at my mother's feet,--
I would recall with importunings long That so sad soul, once pierced as with a knife, And cry, Forgive! Oh, think Youth's tide was strong, And the full torrent, shut from brain and life, Plunged through the heart, until It rocked to madness, and the o'erstrained will Grew wild, then weak, in the despairing strife!
And ever I think, What warning voice should call, Or show me bane from food, with tedious art, When love--the perfect instinct, flower of all Divinest potencies of choice, whose part Was set 'mid stars and flame To keep the inner place of God--became A blind and ravening fever of the heart?
I laugh with scorn that men should think them praised In women's love,--chance-flung in weary hours, By sickly fire to bloated worship raised!-- O long-lost dream, so sweet of vernal flowers! Wherein I stood, it seemed, And gave a gift of queenly mark!--I _dreamed_ Of Passion's joy aglow in rounded powers.