THE CHANGE

Out of the past there rises a week— Who shall read the years O!— Out of the past there rises a week Enringed with a purple zone. Out of the past there rises a week When thoughts were strung too thick to speak, And the magic of its lineaments remains with me alone.

In that week there was heard a singing— Who shall spell the years, the years!— In that week there was heard a singing, And the white owl wondered why. In that week, yea, a voice was ringing, And forth from the casement were candles flinging Radiance that fell on the deodar and lit up the path thereby.

Could that song have a mocking note?— Who shall unroll the years O!— Could that song have a mocking note To the white owl’s sense as it fell? Could that song have a mocking note As it trilled out warm from the singer’s throat, And who was the mocker and who the mocked when two felt all was well?

In a tedious trampling crowd yet later— Who shall bare the years, the years!— In a tedious trampling crowd yet later, When silvery singings were dumb; In a crowd uncaring what time might fate her, Mid murks of night I stood to await her, And the twanging of iron wheels gave out the signal that she was come.

She said with a travel-tired smile— Who shall lift the years O!— She said with a travel-tired smile, Half scared by scene so strange; She said, outworn by mile on mile, The blurred lamps wanning her face the while, “O Love, I am here; I am with you!” . . . Ah, that there should have come a change!

O the doom by someone spoken— Who shall unseal the years, the years!— O the doom that gave no token, When nothing of bale saw we: O the doom by someone spoken, O the heart by someone broken, The heart whose sweet reverberances are all time leaves to me.