Gratitude.

There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far
    To say in written words than when we sit
    Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit.
Not that there is between us any bar
    Of shyness or reserve; the day is past
    For that, and utter trust has come at last.

Only, when shut alone and safe inside
    These four white walls, - hearing no sound except
    Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept
Stealthily round us, - as the incoming tide
    Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on
    Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.

Or out on the green hillside, even there
    There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.
    For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill
With wondrous echoes all the waiting air.
    We listen, and in listening must forget
Our own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;

Even our joys, - thou knowest; - when the air
    Is full to overflowing with the sense
    Of hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence.
There is no place for words; we do not dare
    To break Love's stillness, even though the power
    Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.

But here in quietness I can recall
    All I would tell thee, how thou art to me
    Impulse and inspiration, and with thee
I can but smile though all my idols fall.
    I wait my meed as others who have known
    Patience till to their utmost stature grown.

As when the heavens are draped in gloomy gray
    And earth is tremulous with a vague unrest
    A glory fills the tender, troubled West
That glads the closing of November's day,
    So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded sky
    When day is over and I know thee nigh.

Thou art so much, all this and more, to me,
    And what am I to thee? Can I repay
    These many gifts? Is there no royal way
Of recompense, so I may proudly see
    The man my heart delights to praise renowned
    For wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?

Ah! though there is no recompense in love
    Yet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee,
    Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me,
Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall prove
    No worship of thee by my soul confessed?
    And riches? Ah! a wealth of love is best.