It is as if high winds in heaven
  Had shaken the celestial trees,
And to this earth below had given
  Some feathered seeds from one of these.

O perfect love that ’dureth long! 
  Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. 
And breathed on by the angel’s song,
  Blooms on in heaven’s eternal calms!

How great the task to guard thee here,
  Where wind is rough and frost is keen,
And all the ground with doubt and fear
  Is checkered, birth and death between!

Space is against thee—­it can part;
  Time is against thee—­it can chill;
Words—­they but render half the heart;
  Deeds—­they are poor to our rich will.

* * * * *

Merton.  Though she had loved me, I had never bound
Her beauty to my darkness; that had been
Too hard for her.  Sadder to look so near
Into a face all shadow, than to stand
Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards
Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. 
I think so, and I loved her; therefore I
Have no complaint; albeit she is not mine: 
And yet—­and yet, withdrawing I would fain
She would have pleaded duty—­would have said
“My father wills it”; would have turned away,
As lingering, or unwillingly; for then
She would have done no damage to the past: 
Now she has roughly used it—­flung it down
And brushed its bloom away.  If she had said,
“Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! my hand”—­
Would I have taken it?  Ah no! by all
Most sacred, no! 
                I would for my sole share
Have taken first her recollected blush
The day I won her; next her shining tears—­
The tears of our long parting; and for all
The rest—­her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry,
That day or night (I know not which it was,
The days being always night), that darkest night. 
When being led to her I heard her cry,
“O blind! blind! blind!”
Go with thy chosen mate: 
The fashion of thy going nearly cured
The sorrow of it.  I am yet so weak
That half my thoughts go after thee; but not
So weak that I desire to have it so.

JESSIE, seated at the piano, sings.

When the dimpled water slippeth,
  Full of laughter, on its way,
And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
  Running by the brink at play;
When the poplar leaves atremble
  Turn their edges to the light,
And the far-up clouds resemble
  Veils of gauze most clear and white;
And the sunbeams fall and flatter
  Woodland moss and branches brown. 
And the glossy finches chatter
  Up and down, up and down: 
Though the heart be not attending,
  Having music of her own,
On the grass, through meadows wending,
  It is sweet to walk alone.