A VALENTINE (To E. P. H.)

A Valentine—Now if I might But somehow tempt her to alight— I mean my Muse—I’d try to say Some word to cheer thy heart, to-day. I know the meaning they attach To Valentines: but then I’ll scratch That off, and write, as to a friend— ’Tis fair, if so we comprehend. How strange, that certain days and hours, That certain trees and certain flowers, Alone possess, as ’twere, a key To certain rooms in memory. When but a child, they used to say That birds, like lovers, went away In search of mates: and even now I dimly can remember how Their words I doubted, till one day Our purple pigeon flew away, Returned at night, and by his side Fluttered his little snow-white bride. And ne’er this day comes ’round to me But flutters in my memory The purple and the snow-white dove Cooing their tender notes of love. Some word to cheer thee, did I say? Words—what are words? As helpless they As blinded eyes to lead the feet O’er tangled pathways, did they meet Not some felt need, or if they be Not warm with loving sympathy. If magic were my art, and I Could banish from thine inner sky All clouds of sorrow and of pain, I would not do it. Following rain Is brighter sky; at sorrow’s fire Our joys are tempered. Mounting higher Than human wish is human need, And wrapped beneath the husks of creed Is what we think, and feel, and know, Of the deep things of God. And so My best and only wish shall be That thou mayst solve life’s mystery.