“Good Night,” said she, and laid her hand upon my head, and again her touch thrilled through, every limb and the dreams of childhood uprose in my soul.  I could not go, but gazed into her deep unfathomable eyes until the peace of her soul completely overshadowed mine.  Then I arose and went home in silence—­and in the night I dreamed of the silver poplar around which the wind roared—­but not a leaf stirred on its branches.

  The buried life.

  Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet
  Behold, with tears my eyes are wet;
  I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll.

  Yes, yes, we know that we can jest;
  We know, we know that we can smile;
  But there’s a something in this breast
  To which thy light words bring no rest,
  And thy gay smiles no anodyne.

  Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
  And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
  And, let me read there, love, thy inmost soul.

  Alas, is even love too weak
  To unlock the heart, and let it speak? 
  Are even lovers powerless to reveal
  To one another what indeed they feel? 
  I knew the mass of men concealed
  Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
  They would by other men be met
  With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
  I knew they lived and moved,
  Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest
  Of men and alien to themselves—­and yet,
  The same heart beats in every human breast.

  But we, my love—­does a like spell benumb
  Our hearts—­our voices?—­must we too be dumb?

  Ah! well for us, if even we,
  Even for a moment, can yet free
  Our hearts and have our lips unchained;
  For that which seals them hath been deep ordained. 
  Fate which foresaw
  How frivolous a baby man would be,
  By what distractions he would be possessed,
  How he would pour himself in every strife,
  And well-nigh change his own identity,
  That it might keep from his capricious play
  His genuine self, and force him to obey,
  Even in his own despite, his being’s law,
  Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
  The unregarded River of our Life,
  Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
  And that we should not see
  The buried stream, and seem to be
  Eddying about in blind uncertainty,
  Though driving on with it eternally.

  But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
  But often in the din of strife,
  There rises an unspeakable desire
  After the knowledge of our buried life;

  A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
  In tracking out our true original course;
  A longing to inquire
  Into the mystery of this heart that beats
  So wild, so deep, in us; to know
  Whence our thoughts come, and where they go. 
  And many a man in his own breast then delves,
  But deep enough, alas, none ever mines;