Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter VII. Hope.

Letter VII. Hope.


I.

    O tears of mine! Ye start I know not why,
    Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,
    Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad
    I scarce can deem that my despair will die,
    Or that the sun, careering up the sky,
    Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.


II.

    And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,
    Much as we make it; and the things we tend
    Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.
    And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,
    And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;
    And some begin, and some will never end.


III.

    How can I think, ye tears! that I have been
    The thing I was - so doubting, so unfit,
    And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,
    And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean
    And cold and pale, as if I late had seen
    Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it?


IV.

    Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so long
    Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane
    To golden fields and all the happy plain
    Where once I met the Lady of my Song,
    The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,
    But never weak or diffident again?


V.

    I was too shorn of hope. I did employ
    Words like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,
    As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.
    But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy -
    Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy;
    And all the world shall see that I am proud.


VI.

    I shall be sated now. I shall receive
    More than the guerdon of my wildest thought,
    More than the most that ecstasy has taught
    To saints in Heaven; and more than poets weave
    In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive;
    And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought.


VII.

    I know the meaning now of all the signs,
    And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams.
    I realise the comfort of the streams
    When they reflect the shadows of the pines.
    I know that there is hope for celandines,
    And that a tree is merrier than it seems.


VIII.

    I know the mighty hills have much to tell;
    And that they quake, at times, in undertone,
    And talk to stars, because so much alone
    And so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,
    Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bell
    Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.


IX.

    I know such things, because to loving hearts
    Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,
    Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade
    Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts
    That once were Cupid's; and the day departs,
    And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid.


X.

    The lover knows how grand a thing is love,
    How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divine
    More than the pouring out of choicest wine;
    More than the whiteness of the whitest dove;
    More than the glittering of the stars above;
    And such a love, O Love! is thine and mine.


XI.

    To me the world, to-day, has grown so fair
    I dare not trust myself to think of it.
    Visions of light around me seem to flit,
    And Phoebus loosens all his golden hair
    Right down the sky; and daisies turn and stare
    At things we see not with our human wit.




XII.

    And here, beside me, there are mosses green
    In shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array,
    And lordly beetles out for holiday;
    And spiders small that work in silver sheen
    To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen,
    That she may don it on the First of May.


XIII.

    I hear, in thought, I hear the very words
    That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook,
    Spoke to Diana, when her leave she took
    Of all she lov'd - low-weeping as the birds
    Shrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herds
    Scamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook.


XIV.

    I know, to-day, why winds were made to sigh
    And why they hide themselves, and why they gloat
    In some old ruin! Mote confers with mote,
    And shell with shell; and corals live and die,
    And die and live, below the deep. And why?
    To make a necklace for my lady's throat.


XV.

    And yet the world, in all its varied girth,
    Lacks what we look for. There is something base
    In mere existence - something in the face
    Of men and women which accepts the earth,
    And all its havings, as its right of birth,
    But not its quittance, not its resting-place.


XVI.

    There have been moments, at the set of sun,
    When I have long'd for wings upon the wind,
    That I might seek a planet to my mind,
    More full-develop'd than this present one;
    With more of scope, when all is said and done,
    To satisfy the wants of human kind.


XVII.

    A world with thee, a home in some remote
    And unknown region, which no sage's ken
    Has compass'd yet; of which no human pen
    Has traced the limits; where no terrors float
    In wind or wave, and where the soul may note
    A thousand raptures unreveal'd to men.


XVIII.

    To be transported in a magic car,
    On some transcendent night in early June,
    Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon;
    To have our being in a bridal star,
    In lands of light, where only angels are,
    Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon.


XIX.

    To be all this: to have in our estate
    Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay
    Of some new planet where a summer's day
    Lasts fifty years; and there to celebrate
    Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate -
    This were a subject for a seraph's lay.


XX.

    This were a life to live, - a life indeed, -
    A thing to die for; if, in truth, we die
    When we but put our mortal vestments by.
    This were a climax for a lover's need
    Sweeter than songs, and holier than the creed
    Of half the zealots who have sought the sky.