LA VIE POÉTIQUE.

He is not blind who seeth nought; Or dumb, who nothing can express; And sight and sound are something less Than what is inwardly inwrought. So seems it foremost of my joys,— Not ranking those that from above Assume on earth the name of Love, The feast which never ends or cloys. Nor is it less a feast to me If he, my neighbor, cannot break The bread with me, or with me take The wine of all my mystery. Not less a feast, if so well off He deems himself in worldly goods, That at unseen beatitudes He blindly flings an aimless scoff. Not theirs the blame who thus disown The wealth they see not as they walk, Nor mingle in their household talk What all to them is all unknown. Mine be the greater joys that tend To give me what I cannot give, And what in living makes me live, And what I best can comprehend. And though, amid the daily dust Of moving men, I move a moat Within the sunbeam where we float, With mutual needs and mutual trust,— Though outward unto outward shows The kindred claims of sympathy, And hand to hand and eye to eye The generous meed of Faith bestows,— Yet am I conscious that I bear A something in me dumb and blind To all the rest of human kind, And which but one can partly share. Though in the turbulent stream of change, The pressing wants of flesh and sense Conceal my inward opulence, And clog the life that else would range; Yet am I conscious that below The turbid tide, as through the straits Of Bab-el-Mandeb's tearful gates, Strong counter currents constant flow. Nor do I love that man the less, Because, in our companionship There lieth behind the eye and lip, That something, neither can express. For inasmuch as mortal love, Being mortal, cannot fill our need, I feel the Goodness that can feed With droppings from the feast above. Whereby, in Heaven's perfected plan, Which saves from spoil of worldly flaw, I read the inevitable law Of compensation unto man. Thus, though I grope in darkest night, Of what men call a world of ills, The closer concentration fills My inmost with benignant light. And though I sit in dull routine Schooled to the scholarship of books, My truant spirit outward looks And Fancy fills the village green! Yet not in pride, oh, understand, Not pride of merit do I boast, Of that, which at its uttermost, Is of me part, like eye or hand. In awe, not pride, doth Fancy wield The sceptre of her gorgeous realm, Whose revelations overwhelm With sense of greatness unrevealed. Thus, whatsoever good is gained In fantasies of fresh delights, But wings us to diviner flights Unto the ever unattained. Nor need I more than this to show All proof of that astounding bliss, Which from the world of worlds to this, Through lowliest mind, sends conscious glow. Not clearer through the density Of darkling woods, do I behold The intervening flecks of gold Reveal unseen intensity. In this deep truth I hold the key That locks me from a world of pain, And opens unto boundless gain Of sweet ideal mystery. And though I may not hope to climb Above the level commonplace, Or touch that vital growth of grace Which shapes the fruit of deathless rhyme, Yet, will I bless the Gracious Power Which giveth strength to walk the mead, And catch the sometime wafted seed That ripens to the quiet flower. Or, when, foot-weary with the day, My longing spirit only feels The tremor of the distant wheels That bear some poet on his way; I'll deem it very kindly chance That gives the apprehension clear To feel the pageant, far or near, That moves to other's utterance. And if I can but feebly keep With reverent grace my share of good, And kneeling, gather daily food By gleaning, where my betters reap, Yet will I bless the Hand Divine That with the appetite for least, Transforms into perpetual feast The homely bread, the household wine; And place it foremost of my joys,— Not ranking those that from above Assume on earth the name of Love,— That feast, which never ends or cloys.