The Way
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t first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grassesSweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of rosesWhose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water,While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing. It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons,Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine;No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers,And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen.And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longingto wander,The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great songof Nature,Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future." Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the roadWhere many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the treesand the flowers,The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing.And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean.But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset.It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water,And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire,Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water;And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight,yet he venturesHis life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him.O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city,The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset! Diya {original title is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha} Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!See where it casts the shadow of that treeFar out upon the grass. And every gustOf light night wind comes laden with the scentOf opening flowers which never bloom by day:Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and thatPale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.It seems as though the garden which you loveWere like a swinging censer, its incenseFloating before us as a reverent actTo sanctify and bless our night of love.Tell me once more you love me, that 't is youYes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand;And tell me it is by your own free willThat you are here, and that you like to beJust here, with me, under this sailing pine.I need to hear it often for my heartDoubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,And yet I would not have it goodness, ratherExcess of selfishness in you to needMe through and through, as flowers need the sun.I wonder can it really be that youAnd I are here alone, and that the nightIs full of hours, and all the world asleep,And none can call to you to come away;For you have given all yourself to meMaking me gentle by your willingness.Has your life too been waiting for this time,Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as thoughI were a priest before a holy shrine.I'm glad that you are beautiful, althoughWere you not lovely still I needs must love;But you are all things, it must have been soFor otherwise it were not you. Come, close;When you are in the circle of my armFaith grows a mountain and I take my standUpon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once moreKiss me, and let me feel you very nearWanting me wholly, even as I want you.Have years behind been dark? Will those to comeBring unguessed sorrows into our two lives?What does it matter, we have had to-night!To-night will make us strong, for we believeEach in the other, this is a sacrament.Beloved, is it true?
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