It is not to win
Love, for hoarded toil,
From those poor, with their spent oil, weeping, ’Light us in!’—­

No; but in despite
Of all vigils set,
Do I bind me to thee yet,—­strangest thing of Light!

Only, all, for thee
Whatsoe’er thou art,
Smiling through the blinded heart, things it cannot see.

Very Soul’s Desire,
Take my life; and live
By the rapture thine doth give, ecstasy of fire!

Hold thy golden breath! 
For I feel,—­not hear—­
Spent with joy and fear to lose thee, all the song it saith.

Light, light, my own: 
Do not thou disown
Thy poor keeper-of-the-light, for Light’s sake alone.

The dark had left no speech save hand-in-hand Between us two the while, with others near.  Mine questioned thine with ‘Why should I be here?’ ‘Yet bide thou here,’ said thine, ’and understand.’

And mine was mute; but strove not then to go; And hid itself, and murmured, ’Do not hear The listening in my heart!’ Said thine, ’My Dear, I will not hear it, ever.  But I know.’

Said mine to thine:  ’Let be.  Now will I go!—­ For you are saying,—­you who do not speak, This hand-in-hand is one day cheek-to-cheek!’ And said thy hand around me, ’Even so.’

Then mine to thine.—­’Yea, I have been alone; —­Yet happy.—­This is strange.  This is not I!  You hold me, but you can not tell me why.’  And said thy hand to mine again, ’My Own.’

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:—­
  Far and early, from the crowd,
On the hills from steep to steep,
  Where the silence cried aloud;
  And the shadow of the cloud
Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water’s cool,
  Filling boyish hands from thence,
Something breathed across the pool
  Stir of sweet enlightenments;
  And he drank, with thirsty sense,
Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed,
  And the Vision unbeheld,
And the mute sky overhead,
  And his longing, still withheld! 
  —­Even when the two tears welled,
Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessed in the leaves,
  Dim-companioned in the sun,
Eager mornings, wistful eves,
  Very hunger drew him on;
  And To-morrow ever shone
With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart,
  Words and hands, and Men were dear;
And the stir of lane and mart
  After daylong vigil here. 
  Sunset called, and he drew near,
Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue,
  Called the herd-bells home again,
Through the purple shades he swung,
  Down the mountain, through the glen;
  Towards the sound of fellow-men,—­
Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud,
  Came that silent flock of his: 
Thronging whiteness, in a crowd,
  After homing twos and threes;
  With the thronging memories
Of all white things dreamed and vowed.