you they sing

Like poets, from the vanity of song?
Or have they any sense of why they sing?
And would they praise the heavens for
what they have?"

And I made answer, "Were there nothing else

For which to praise the heavens but only love,

That only love were cause enough for praise."

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought,

And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd,

We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North;

Down which a well-worn pathway courted

He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, "Look! look!" Before he

ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,

That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,

And blown across the walk. One arm aloft

Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist Ah, happy shade—and still went wavering down,

danced

The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips,

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast

As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,

She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she,

a Rose

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd

Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air

Which brooded round about her:

“Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fail fingers cull'd,

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips

Less exquisite than thine."

She look'd but all neither self

Suffused with blushes possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,

Divided in a graceful quiet paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came,

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statuelike,

In act to render thanks.

|
I, that whole day,
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white

star

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.

So home we went, and all the livelong

way

With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.

And all that night I heard the watchman peal

The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,
Distilling odors on me as they went
To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir
to all,

Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm

Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt.

Light pretexts drew me sometimes a Dutch love

For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and

cream

Served in the weeping elm; and more and

more

A word could bring the color to my cheek; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew;

Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased.

The daughters of the year, One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd:

Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade; And each in passing touch'd with some

new grace

Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day,

Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; And in that time and place she answer'd

me,

And in the compass of three little words, More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering, "I am thine."

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to

say

That my desire, like all strongest hopes,
By its own energy fulfill'd itself,
Merged in completion? Would you learn
at full

How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades

Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed I had not stayed so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes,

Or while the balmy glooming, crescentlit,

Spread the light haze along the rivershores,

And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent

On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds

May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul;

Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time

Is come to raise the veil.

Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first, last love; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas! Now the most blessed memory of mine

age.

Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:

"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think,

And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,

And never more darken my doors again."
But William answer'd madly; bit his
lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at

her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house,

And hired himself to work within the fields;

A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd

His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;

him,

But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers

reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took

But Dora stored what little she could

mound;

And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

save,

know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

"I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these

five years

So full a harvest let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart

is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way

Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies

hood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more. Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,

That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:

And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,

For he will teach him hardness, and to slight

His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home;

And I will beg of him to take thee back: But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house,

thus:

'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know

The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd

His face and pass'd- unhappy that I

am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for

you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in

sobs: "I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'd my son.