Classic Poem

A night like this, alone beside the fire,
The world shut out, and by the world shut in,
The woods around as vibrant as a lyre,
Where all sounds end, and where all sounds begin —
Ah, then the soul becomes a harp of gold
That thrills with thoughts as tender as a kiss,
With visions, dreams, and memories of old,
Alone beside the fire a night like this.

It is so still the very heart may hear
Its own heart beat: a cricket in the grass,
The whisper of the nightwind very near,
The bending of a bough to let it pass.
Then in the deep, mysterious, silent wood
A sleeping bird stirs softly in its nest.
The pine-tree croons a song of motherhood,
Each fragrant note a lullaby to rest.

Afar I hear the crystal waters strike
The little stones, melodiously light.
There is, in all the world, no music like
The sound of waters running in the night:
So clear, so cool, so musical, so sweet,
To weary hearts as welcome as the touch
Of velvet grasses to the weary feet,
To weary feet that labor overmuch.

Above is spread the canopy of stars,
Resplendent jewels on a robe of blue:
The pretty Pleiades, majestic Mars,
That bathe the earth with silver and with dew.
Peace, peace, is written on the azure dome,
And earth and heaven bridge the old abyss.
Alone beside the fire the heart goes home,
Alone beside the fire a night like this.

Upon the wall of green the shadows play,
As dies the fire or rouses into flame.
There lies to-morrow's road that leads away,
And here the tangled trail by which I came.
A spark flies upward, glowing in the air,
To follow it the vision upward turns;
Now it is there, and now it is not there;
But still unchanged old Mars above me burns.

O Memory, you are like my little fire,
My lonely fire beside the lonely trail:
Here are the ashes of the old desire,
The old desire enkindled but to fail.
Old thoughts leap up, as flames a moment glow,
The resurrection of a holy kiss;
Old joys, old pains, of other nights I know,
Alone beside the fire a night like this.

Yea, other nights — a night like this in June:
The same half-silence, same divine repose;
Upon the lawn a fountain's tinkling tune,
And, in the dark, the white face of a rose —
A face like hers, a face now white with fear;
Upon the rose a diamond of dew,
Upon her face the dewdrop of a tear;
And I was there, and that white rose was you.

That is the mightiest moment of a man,
The most remembered, holiest of all,
When doubt withdrew and perfect faith began —
When first for him he saw a teardrop fall.
He shall remember, all the weary miles,
No idle moment in the happy years
When once his laughter laughed her into smiles,
But some sad hour he talked her into tears.

Half guilt, half glory, will that moment be:
A shame that he had saddened one so fair;
Half guilt, half glory that for such as he
She bared her soul and wept, and did not care.
He would have suffered to have saved her sighs,
Yet exquisitely sweet that hour apart;
For smiles come lightly to a woman's eyes,
But sorrow wells from fountains of the heart.

You wore a scarf of silver, and I dreamed
That it was moonlight fallen from the blue,
A mantle out of heaven that be-seemed
An angel out of heaven such as you.
It lay across your shoulder. I have seen
A square of moonlight lying on the grass,
And years rolled back that long had rolled between,
And almost I have thought I saw you pass —

I saw you pass in your old beauty, as
I saw you pass my campfire even now;
For this the magic that the moonlight has,
The moonlight has a night like this, somehow.
And once the nightwind touched me on the cheek
(That other night you touched it with a kiss)
And on the wind I heard your whisper speak —
For such things happen on a night like this.

And I remember that you looked not down
That night in June, but lifted up your face
Like that white rose imprisoned in the town
That made, like you, the town a holy place —
That you looked up at me and at the stars,
Not shy with shame but sad with questioning,
As though you looked beyond their very bars,
In search of something there to which to cling.

I knew, you knew, that here had come the end.
We heard the step of him of better right;
And I could stay and play the part of friend,
Or I could take the trail I tread to-night.
I took the trail — there was no more to know;
I took the trail — there was no more to do;
But you walk with me every trail I go,
And every campfire is a dream of you.

And, if I doubt, yea, I who doubt no more,
The stars make answer, answer " Do we change? "
The river follows its accustomed shore,
Unaltered is the granite mountain range.
Have I not seen you pour upon the stone
The sacrifice of sorrow, tenderly?
A night like this beside the fire alone
If my heart ask, my own heart answers me.

A night like this alone beside the fire
I look, like you, beyond the wall of trees.
I ask the stars, the stars that do not tire,
For what they wait the weary centuries.
I ask the stars, that wait and alter not;
Perhaps they wait, as wait the souls of men,
Until some time, some time more long than thought,
When stars and men may claim their own again.