Classic Poem

Into my thoughts he comes
At morning as at eve —
The while I listen to the small cross bees
Amid the mignonette,
Or set the quaint old silver straight upon the shelf,
Restore a book unto its honoured place
Familiar to his touch —
Or brush the hearth where as the flame last night
His fancies mounted
Up the wide chimney, past the swallows' nests
To seek the stars.
Into my thoughts he comes as I dust light
The shining table from the drift of ash
Impatient tipped by his white hand
That holds a wizard in its grasp
Of life and death.
I think of him upon his daily round,
Holding the weighty balances
So true and firm —
Bringing to pass the ordered facts of life;
I think of him — a moment paused — to hear a bird,
Or smiling to himself
At some shrewd word recalled, or at some little hand
Waved to him as his car flies past
By some small stranger comrade of the road.

A thousand ways I fashion him in thought,
Coming — and going — in and out —
Both far and near —
While the rain makes its friendly din upon the roof
As oft when sheltering both,
Or the great wind he loves sends the red maple trees
Crusading on the hill!
Even I think of him as oftenest he comes —
Up the long grass path to the open door,
Standing with his swift figure cut against the light
Of afternoon or evening red, or with a rising moon
Upon his shoulder, gladness in his eyes
For omen of his luck —
In those brave eyes
Unswerving at the truth of pain or wrong.

But just to-day came this strange wondering —
What if he sometimes take me in —
Over the threshold of his inmost thought?
So intimate, so big with shock
It came, unbid,
I could no further think,
I could but feel —
Blind to the bees amid the mignonette
As to the vision of my heart.
If I be there — if once within his thought
Shut in with him —
What homing for a dizzy swallow while she reels
In gold of skies far circling —