Classic Poem

Why , sir, as to that — — I did not know it was time for the moon to rise,
(So, the longest day of them all can end, if we will have patience with it.)
One woman can hardly care, I think, to remember another one's eyes,
And — — the bats are beginning to flit.
. . . . We hate one another? It may be true.
What else do you teach us to do?
Yea, verily, to love you.

My lords — and gentlemen — are you sure that after we love quite all
There is in your noble selves to be loved, no time on our hands will remain?
Why, an hour a day were enough for this. We may watch the wild leaves fall
On the graves you forget. . . . . It is plain
That you were not pleased when she said — — Just so;
Still, what do we want, after all, you know,
But room for a rose to grow?

You leave us the baby to kiss, perhaps; the bird in the cage to sing;
The flower on the window, the fire on the hearth (and the fires in the heart) to tend.
When the wandering hand that would reach somewhere has become the Slave of the Ring,
You give us — an image to mend;
Then shut with a careless smile, the door —
(There 's dew or frost on the path before;)
We are safe inside. What more?

If the baby should moan, or the bird sit hushed, or the flower fade out — what then?
Ah? the old, old feud of mistress and maid would be left though the sun went out?
You can number the stars and call them by names, and, as men, you can wring from men
The world — for they own it, no doubt.
We, not being eagles, are doves? Why, yes,
We must hide in the leaves, I guess,
And coo down our loneliness.
God meant us for saints? Yes — in Heaven. Well, I, for one, am content
To trust Him through darkness and space to the end — if an end there shall be;
But, as to His meanings, I fancy I never knew quite what He meant.
And — — why, what were you saying to me
Of the saints — or that saint? It is late;
The lilies look weird by the gate.
. . . . Ah, sir, as to that — we will wait.