Classic Poem

I KNOW not by what way I came
To poise the silver singing flame
Uplifted here; and though I guess,
It is a lonely blessedness.
But bowered white with spheral calms,
I see the wild-flowers and the palms
They offer — passing by the shrine —
Before whose need even I may shine,
An almoner of peace not mine.

I know not why it gives them ease
To bring me all their memories;
Or why I seem, to men forspent,
A mystical enlightenment.
But since 'tis so, be sure I take
Their sorrow, gladly, for love's sake.
I bind their burdens in a sheaf;
I hold my arms out unto grief
And hallow it, with flower and leaf.

I keep the broken things that were
Too many, for a wanderer:
The hope outworn, the heavier stress,
The savors of rare bitterness
From dreams too fine for daily bread;
And in my heart their wounds are red.
The spirit's mute indwelling tear
Is mine; nor could I hold as dear
The first rapt snowdrop of the year!

They pass and pass. And sweet it is
To guard unheeded mysteries,
Like roots that Spring shall bring to be
A thousand-petaled fragrancy!
And sweet it is to be the cool,
Forgotten haunt, all beautiful
For once, unto the eyes of pain
That, healed once with living rain,
Pass by and never come again.

Sometimes the taper shrinks and flares
Beneath a whirlwind of despairs
That poise and circle, night and day;
And scarce my anguished fingers may
Withhold a little, lovely spark
From that fierce hunger of the Dark, —
The outcry of some groaning deep
Calling upon me without sleep,
That I let fall the light, and weep!

And weep I would ... save that I must
The more, the more, lift eyes of trust
(As sometimes you may smile into
The folding sky, unanswering blue)
For very need of loyalty,
To something that I never see
But love, although it give no sign:
Some radiance hid, some Heart, divine,
That is far lonelier than mine.