ACT IV. SCENE 2.

Girls, when I am gone away, On this bosom strew Only flowers meek and pale, And the yew. Lay these hands down by my side, Let my face be bare; Bind a kerchief round the face, Smooth my hair. Let my bier be borne at dawn, Summer grows so sweet, Deep into the forest green Where boughs meet. Then pass away, and let me lie One long, warm, sweet day There alone with face upturn’d, One sweet day. While the morning light grows broad, While noon sleepeth sound, While the evening falls and faints, While the world goes round. Susan. Whence had you this song, lady? L. Mar. Out of the air; From no one an it be not from the wind That goes at noonday in the sycamore trees. —When said the tardy page he would return? Susan. By twelve, upon this very hour. L. Mar. Look now, The sand falls down the glass with even pace, The shadows lie like yesterday’s. Nothing Is wrong with the world. You are a part of it,— I stand within a magic circle charm’d From reach of anything, shut in from you, Leagues from my needle, and this frame I touch, Waiting till doomsday come— [Knocking heard] The messenger! Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my heart Ready for death, or too much ravishment. [Exeunt both Girls.] How the little sand-hill slides and slides; how many Red grains would drop while a man’s keen knife drawn Across one’s heart let the red life out? Susan. [returning] Lady! L. Mar. I know it by your eyes. O do not fear To tell all punctually: I am carved of stone.

Still deep into the West I gazed; the light Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps, Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen? Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s face It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood, Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death Along the blind charm’d way to nothingness, Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a sky Made for a man to waste his will upon, To be received as wiser than all toil, And much more fair. And what was strife of men? And what was time? Then came a certain thing. Are intimations for the elected soul Dubious, obscure, of unauthentic power Since ghostly to the intellectual eye, Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not we Servile to words and an usurping brain, Infidels of our own high mysteries, Until the senses thicken and lose the world, Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see, And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day, Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food? It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone. One standing on some aery balcony And looking down upon a swarming crowd Sees one man beckon to him with finger-tip While eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again— The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms. Shall such an one say “Thus ’tis proved a dream, And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?” Neither can I say this. There was a hint, A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute, Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d, And failed not to respond. Does a hand pass Lightly across your hair? you feel it pass Not half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight, Although you never stir; so felt the sky Not unaware of the Presence, so my soul Scarce less aware. And if I cannot say The meaning and monition, words are weak Which will not paint the small wing of a moth, Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain, And much less serve the soul in her large needs. I cannot tell the meaning, but a change Was wrought in me; it was not the one man Who come to the luminous window to gaze forth, And who moved back into the darkened room With awe upon his heart and tender hope; From some deep well of life tears rose; the throng Of dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off, And from a sacred solitude I gazed Deep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.