Classic Poem

Out from the valley of Death, O beloved,
Footsore and weary comes trailing thy soul.
Canst thou not tell us the whole
That thou sawest, beloved?

Nay, naught I saw A fire in each vein
Did flow and ebb.
Choked was my breath, caught in a tangled web.
I felt my racked, uneasy, restless life.
Grow all distorted, dark, and full of pain;
At forms I did not know, in useless strife
I caught. — But now life is itself again.

And what? No glimpse of glory through the bar?
No thread of light? No voice? Not one?

Nay, none
Only the passion of sense all ajar;
The dizzy state, fear-wrung,
Of life unstrung
And in thy palm
No single leaf,
To lay as a balm
To the scar of grief?

Not one. And yet 'tis good to be alive;
To feel the sunshine filter through the flesh,
The charmed mesh
Of leaves above,
The sky so clear,
And thou so near,
Dear love!
We can but live.
And if we nothing know
'Tis better so.
Can we not let the future rest?
Is not that faith the only faith confessed
Which says: — We know not; God, He knoweth best? —
O, I could prophesy, dear love, in this
I know a spirit lurking in thy kiss,
I know a life beneath the swaying leaves
In Heaven's blue, and with no earthly eye
I see a something fairer. There relieves
My senses, dear, a vision. Mystery
Is Life as well as Death, in verity:
This formless, haunting vision surely gives
Me knowledge that a spirit in me lives.
Why mystery to mystery dost strive
To add, love, seeking for a further sign? —
Out from the valley of Death, O beloved,
Footsore and weary comes trailing my soul,
And I cannot tell thee the whole.
But my soul doth live,
Doth live in thy sight,
In this life's sunlight,
As thine in mine.
Beloved, let this console!