Part 5 (1/2)

'Yet bide thou here,' said thine, 'and understand.'_

_And mine was mute; but strove not then to go; And hid itself, and murmured, 'Do not hear The listening in my heart!' Said thine, 'My Dear, I will not hear it, ever. But I know.'_

_Said mine to thine: 'Let be. Now will I go!-- For you are saying,--you who do not speak, This hand-in-hand is one day cheek-to-cheek!'

And said thy hand around me, 'Even so.'_

_Then mine to thine.--'Yea, I have been alone; --Yet happy.--This is strange. This is not I!

You hold me, but you can not tell me why.'

And said thy hand to mine again, 'My Own.'_

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:-- Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water's cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld!

--Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessed in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eves, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands, and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here.

Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,-- Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the thronging memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own.

Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart's-desire, from day to day.

But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep.

And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.-- All day long, he kept the sheep.

THE LONG LANE

All through the summer night, down the long lane in flower, The moon-white lane, All through the summer night,--dim as a shower, Glimmer and fade the Twain: Over the cricket hosts, throbbing the hour by hour, Young voices bloom and wane.

Down the long lane they go, and past one window, pale With visions silver-blurred; Stirring the heart that waits,--the eyes that fail After a spring deferred.

Query, and hush, and Ah!--dim through a moon-lit veil, The same one word.

Down the long lane, entwined with all the fragrance there; The lane in flower somehow With youth, and plighted hands, and star-strewn air, And muted 'Thee' and 'Thou':-- All the wild bloom and reach of dreams that never were, --Never to be, now.

So, in the throbbing dark, where ebbs the old refrain, A starved heart hears.