Classic Poem

Twice have I turned to hear a tone,
And thrice have I seen a look,
That tell me well the soul that I love
Is to me but a sealed book.

'T was only the name of her little child,
And a " Darling!" one day as she kissed;
But twice those household words were strains
Out of exquisite music missed.

I remember the raptured hour she stood
With love-light haloing her,
When her lips were dim in the crimson tides
From the deeps of joy astir:

And once, 'mid the pain of farewell tears
For an exile seaward doomed,
How her form upreached like a quivering stem
And a new face suddenly bloomed:

And then, a day in a shaded room,
A day in the valley of Death; —
She must journey and wrestle alone, — and we,
We waited with bated breath,

Until the radiant marvel broke
Of her resurrection-face,
And the weary eyes, her victory won,
So peacefully filled with grace.

Three days that star-look on us beamed,
And the bed was a holy shrine,
Where soft we worshipped the new-born Child
O'erhung by the Mother's sign!

Slowly it faded, and welcome grew
For the old dear eyes returned, —
The light of our home, but not the eyes
Where the angel-look had burned.

Do you wonder an awe enfolds my love
For the presence with whom I dwell, —
My inmost friend, but a stranger too,
Whom I know not over well?

Her soul to me is an Upper Land,
Where mornings rise unseen
On pathless mountain-mysteries
And dells of hidden green.

I am so glad of her gardens sweet
Too sacred for me to walk,
So glad of the sunlit heights too far
To echo our mingled talk!

And I try to climb and listen and watch;
For may be the sense will grow,
Till into her loneliness I may press
And all of her sweetness know!

A marvel! But what if there be a truth
Passing in wonder this?
Can she be to herself as dim, unknown,
And the best of her nature miss?

Can there be in us all those heights of will
And shadowy deeps of thought,
A land in the heart of each one's life
With self-surprises fraught, —

Whither, in sudden mystical hours
When the conscious self is forgot,
We are rapt as into an upper self,
And stand in the light of a spot,

Where are born those exquisite tones that stray
To startle the common days,
And the look that heralds our angel-smile
Dawns into our eyes and ways?

Only a minute, — and then we are back
In the meadows far below,
Where the life-winds sweep and the life-streams run,
And nought of their source we know!

I verily think that she I love
Would hardly a meaning trace,
Should I speak to her of that twice-heard tone
And the thrice-illumined face.