Beauty
FOR MY FRIEND; MRS. FREDERIC J. FAULKS ( THEODOSIA GARRISON )
When I am dead, and hidden in the ground,
I know that after lonely days of sleep
I shall grow weary of my dreamless ease,
And stir the grass above me; long to lift
My narrow roof sealed with white crocuses,
And walk again upon the lovely earth.
I know that I shall say to the Lord God,
" Let me behold once more the flowery Spring,
The jocund April running through the world, " —
(For it will be in April when I rouse
With all reviving things that softly stir),
" Before I venture to the gates of heaven.
I pine for unforgotten loveliness,
I sicken for the beauty that I knew
In youth and age. Let them be mine again! "
And then I know that suddenly mine eyes
Shall see the splendor of the dawn; shall see
A halcyon morning shine on that same shore
Where as a child I watched the pomp of day
March across distant barricades of cloud,
And storm the very ramparts of the world.
I shall see hills emerge from the pale mist,
Their velvet wonder crowned with caps of snow,
And I shall marvel at them as of old.
I shall see rivers winding through the meads,
Long silver serpents hunting for the sea;
And on their banks the blue forget-me-nots,
Half hidden in the grass that covered me.
I shall read glimmering gospels in the book
Of April; deathless legends in the sun;
Psalms that the golden season sings forever;
Green litanies and strangely visible prayers
Writ and embroidered on the cloth of Spring.
O, once again the antique page shall open,
The missal crowded with a curious scroll,
A new enchantment wrought of the old flowers.
And I shall praise again the miracle
Of beauty — beauty far too great to bear.
II
The face of the Beloved, who forgets?
It grows in splendor and light when we are gone;
Absent, its worth increases. Even so
The earth takes on new wonder when we die,
And we remember special sanctities,
Subtle delights that, living, we forget: —
Color, and tone, and mood; some excellence
Of almost unperceived contour; some
Elusive loveliness, still lovelier
Because it is, yet is not; something lost
Between high rapture and Love's deep despair.
O golden sunset, gone ere we can say
To the friend near us, " See that fringe of cloud,
Those galleons of glory in the West,
The furnace fires that burn the world's far rim! "
He turns, astonished, and the dream is gone,
And nevermore appears to him or me
With just that flush of wonder, just that form
Of dappled cloud.
So I have seen a road
In the lush Summer, heavy with the heat,
Shadowed by boughs that wilted in the sun,
Beyond all naming beautiful in the way
It coiled and twisted through the countryside.
One instant — and the shadows changed; a bird,
And then another, bathed in swirls of dust;
A wagon rolled in sight; and as I moved
I lost the moment's rapture.
Nothing remains
Ever the same. The trees are laced to-night
Against the sky; to-morrow they will be
Eager with one more leaf, and the young moon,
A few hours older, will be climbing through
The filmy texture in another light,
And tufted smoke will be the border when
I look once more upon the pale design.
Nothing is quite the same. Therefore I know
My brief delay upon the beautiful earth
Is not enough. Haunted with loveliness,
How can I fare away to other heavens,
Missing innumerable heavens here?
For April is the same — yet never the same;
And Autumn never painted two gold leaves
The eye could match. White hills against the sky
Repeat their wonder through the Winter days,
And yet the clouds behind them lift and break
Till the heart marvels at the shifting moods
Of cold magnificence and dignity.
Ah! we could watch forever the phantom rain,
And never see the ghostly army come
With the same shining helmets on their heads.
New songs would be in the wind though the wind sang
Forever; and new anthems in the sea,
New gestures in the waves, and various glints
Upon the tumbled wheat. There is no hour
When the old wonder is not strangely new.
III
Therefore I know, when I have fallen asleep,
I shall awaken, hungry for the lost
Intangible beauty of the glowing earth.
And God will give me back the Spring again,
That I may read new meanings in the flowers,
Evoke new glory from the sudden leaf,
And haunt the heart of April for my joy.
I know that I have only tasted Life,
And Life is Beauty — Beauty too great to bear
In one brief pilgrimage upon the earth.
When I am dead, and hidden in the ground,
I know that after lonely days of sleep
I shall grow weary of my dreamless ease,
And stir the grass above me; long to lift
My narrow roof sealed with white crocuses,
And walk again upon the lovely earth.
I know that I shall say to the Lord God,
" Let me behold once more the flowery Spring,
The jocund April running through the world, " —
(For it will be in April when I rouse
With all reviving things that softly stir),
" Before I venture to the gates of heaven.
I pine for unforgotten loveliness,
I sicken for the beauty that I knew
In youth and age. Let them be mine again! "
And then I know that suddenly mine eyes
Shall see the splendor of the dawn; shall see
A halcyon morning shine on that same shore
Where as a child I watched the pomp of day
March across distant barricades of cloud,
And storm the very ramparts of the world.
I shall see hills emerge from the pale mist,
Their velvet wonder crowned with caps of snow,
And I shall marvel at them as of old.
I shall see rivers winding through the meads,
Long silver serpents hunting for the sea;
And on their banks the blue forget-me-nots,
Half hidden in the grass that covered me.
I shall read glimmering gospels in the book
Of April; deathless legends in the sun;
Psalms that the golden season sings forever;
Green litanies and strangely visible prayers
Writ and embroidered on the cloth of Spring.
O, once again the antique page shall open,
The missal crowded with a curious scroll,
A new enchantment wrought of the old flowers.
And I shall praise again the miracle
Of beauty — beauty far too great to bear.
II
The face of the Beloved, who forgets?
It grows in splendor and light when we are gone;
Absent, its worth increases. Even so
The earth takes on new wonder when we die,
And we remember special sanctities,
Subtle delights that, living, we forget: —
Color, and tone, and mood; some excellence
Of almost unperceived contour; some
Elusive loveliness, still lovelier
Because it is, yet is not; something lost
Between high rapture and Love's deep despair.
O golden sunset, gone ere we can say
To the friend near us, " See that fringe of cloud,
Those galleons of glory in the West,
The furnace fires that burn the world's far rim! "
He turns, astonished, and the dream is gone,
And nevermore appears to him or me
With just that flush of wonder, just that form
Of dappled cloud.
So I have seen a road
In the lush Summer, heavy with the heat,
Shadowed by boughs that wilted in the sun,
Beyond all naming beautiful in the way
It coiled and twisted through the countryside.
One instant — and the shadows changed; a bird,
And then another, bathed in swirls of dust;
A wagon rolled in sight; and as I moved
I lost the moment's rapture.
Nothing remains
Ever the same. The trees are laced to-night
Against the sky; to-morrow they will be
Eager with one more leaf, and the young moon,
A few hours older, will be climbing through
The filmy texture in another light,
And tufted smoke will be the border when
I look once more upon the pale design.
Nothing is quite the same. Therefore I know
My brief delay upon the beautiful earth
Is not enough. Haunted with loveliness,
How can I fare away to other heavens,
Missing innumerable heavens here?
For April is the same — yet never the same;
And Autumn never painted two gold leaves
The eye could match. White hills against the sky
Repeat their wonder through the Winter days,
And yet the clouds behind them lift and break
Till the heart marvels at the shifting moods
Of cold magnificence and dignity.
Ah! we could watch forever the phantom rain,
And never see the ghostly army come
With the same shining helmets on their heads.
New songs would be in the wind though the wind sang
Forever; and new anthems in the sea,
New gestures in the waves, and various glints
Upon the tumbled wheat. There is no hour
When the old wonder is not strangely new.
III
Therefore I know, when I have fallen asleep,
I shall awaken, hungry for the lost
Intangible beauty of the glowing earth.
And God will give me back the Spring again,
That I may read new meanings in the flowers,
Evoke new glory from the sudden leaf,
And haunt the heart of April for my joy.
I know that I have only tasted Life,
And Life is Beauty — Beauty too great to bear
In one brief pilgrimage upon the earth.
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