XIII By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crew XIV And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge, XV The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke. XVI Poor little place, where its one priest comes To the dozen folk from their scattered homes, XVII To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed, Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts, Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts. XVIII It has some pretension too, this front, Set over the porch, Art's early wont : 'T is John in the Desert, I surmise, But has borne the weather's brunt XIX Not from the fault of the builder, though, For a pent-house properly projects Where three carved beams make a certain show, XX And all day long a bird sings there, And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times; The place is silent and aware; It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, But that is its own affair. XXI My perfect wife, my Leonor, Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too, Whom else could I dare look backward for, With whom beside should I dare pursue The path grey heads abhor? XXII For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them; XXIII ... With me, youth led . . . I will speak now, Reading by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely, my heart knows how— L XXIV When, if I think but deep enough, You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; And you, too, find without rebuff Response your soul seeks many a time, Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. XXV My own, confirm me! If I tread XXVI My own, see where the years conduct! XXVII Think, when our one soul understands The great Word which makes all things new, When earth breaks up and heaven expands, How will the change strike me and you In the house not made with hands? XXVIII Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine, You must be just before, in fine, See and make me see, for your part, New depths of the divine! XXIX But who could have expected this When we two drew together first Just for the obvious human bliss, XXX Come back with me to the first of all, XXXI What did I say?—that a small bird sings XXXII But at afternoon or almost eve 'T is better; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe It must get rid of what it knows, Its bosom does so heave. XXXIII Hither we walked then, side by side, Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, And still I questioned or replied, While my heart, convulsed to really speak, Lay choking in its pride. XXXIV Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, And care about the fresco's loss, And wish for our souls a like retreat, And wonder at the moss. XXXV Stoop and kneel on the settle under, Nothing to see ! The cross is down and the altar bare, As if thieves don't fear thunder. XXXVI We stoop and look in through the grate, See the little porch and rustic door, Read duly the dead builder's date; Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, Take the path again—but wait! XXXVII Oh moment one and infinite! The water slips o'er stock and stone; The West is tender, hardly bright: How grey at once is the evening grownOne star, its chrysolite ! XXXVIII We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew well: XXXIX Oh, the little more, and how much it is! XL Had she willed it, still had stood the screen So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her : |