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, By the dozen ways one roams— 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, XIX. Not from the fault of the builder, though, Where three carved beams make a certain show, 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know. 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; No longer watch you as you sit Reading by fire-light, that great brow 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 To an age so blest that, by its side, 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 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 'Tis 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 pity and praise the chapel sweet, 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, The cross is down and the altar bare, XXXVI. We stoop and look in through the grate, 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: The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred. XXXIX. Oh, the little more, and how much it is! |