Swept was I on that breath her hand had drawn, Through the dull air, into a mountain-space, Where shafts of the bright sun-god interlace,
Making the promise of a golden dawn. And straightway crying, “O my heart, rejoice!” It found its music in my lady’s voice.
Far up the sky the sunset glamour spreads, Far off the city lies in golden mist; The sea grows calm, the waves the sun has kissed Strike white hands softly ‘gainst the rocky heads.
So calm the world, so still the city lies, So warm the haze that spreads o’er everything; And yet where, there, Peace sits as Lord and King, Havoc will reign when next the sun shall rise.
The wheels pause only for a little space, And in the pause they gather strength again. ‘Tis but the veil drawn over Labour’s face,
O’er strife, derision, and the sin of men. My heart with a sweet inner joy o’erflows To nature’s peace, and a kind silence knows.
But see: my lady comes. I hear her feet Upon the sward; she standeth by my side. Just such a face Raphael had deified, If in his day they two had chanced to meet.
And I, tossed by the tide of circumstance, Lifting weak hands against a host of swords, Paused suddenly to hear her gentle words Making powerless the lightnings of mischance.
I, who was but a maker of poor songs, That one might sing behind his prison bars, I, who it seemed fate singled out for wrongs--
She smiled on me as smile the nearest stars. From her deep soul I draw my peace, and thus, One wreath of rhyme I weave for both of us.
Were I but as the master souls who move In their high place, immortal on the earth, My song might be a thing to crown her worth,-- ‘Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.
But since she walks where I am fain to sing, Since she has said, “I listen, O my friend!” There is a glory lent the song I send, And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.
I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes-- Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,
And greet me at the summit of the hill? Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine, Take from me all that makes this world divine?
Art’s use what is it but to touch the springs Of nature? But to hold a torch up for Humanity in Life’s large corridor, To guide the feet of peasants and of kings!