To brood upon the sleeping silences;
All the air is pure and clear,
Pure and pale afar and near,
And clear the waters in the friendly mead;
What agony is in the slow
And steady drip of water from a reed,
That sounds and then is hushed below!

But in my hands thy hands I hold;
Thy steadfast eyes enfold
Mine eyes; I see
Thy peace like purest water undefiled
By cloudy fear, undimmed by hovering wraith
Of doubt, and oh, I see
The perfect faith
That rests within us like a sleeping child.




V


Remembering thy gracious gift to me,
So simple, so profound,
My wondering heart is lost in prayer to thee.
How long it seemed before
I, groping, found
And knocked at thy heart's door;
And from how far I came at last to thee
Whose hands were stretched in silent
search for me.
My heart was eaten by corroding rust
That preyed upon my strength,
Defiled my trust;
I was weary, I was old with long mistrust,
I sickened of the roadway's empty length.
When thy feet wandered into my life's way
They brought a joy so exquisite to me
That, trembling and in tears, I can but stay
To worship silently.




VI


At times thou art the spacious light and air
Of all this tranquil morning garden, where
Sinuous paths wind in the blue haze
Like swans upon the deep blue water-ways.
At other times thou art the shivering wind
Exultant, cool,
Who passes, running fingers light and kind
Along the clear brow of the pool.
When with thy two hands thou touchest me,
I feel the brushing of cool leaves
Against my cheek;
When midday cleaves
The dimness, all the shadows secretly
Meditate the words that thou didst speak.
So all the hours pass by some sweet grace
Of thine, into my heart;
And when at last the wan night comes apace
And rapt in sleep and still, apart,
Thy spirit lies,
Feel thro' thy closed eyelids how mine eyes
Dwell on thee with a love beyond compare,
More humble and more clinging than a prayer.




VII


Oh, let it knock upon our door,
That hand that taps with futile touch;
We have our joy, the rest—what can it offer more?
The rest with futile, listless touch?
Let them pass our door,
The wearied, mirthless joys
With their tinsel and their toys.
Let laughter rise and sound and disappear;
The crowd move on with million voices clear.

The moment is so fair with light
In this garden all about;
The moment is so rare with new-born light
Deep within us and without!
Ah, 'tis the part of wisdom, dear;
No longer seek we those who go
By the long highway drear,
With heavy feet and singing low.
But stay we here, contented as of old,
Though night itself strike out the sky above,
Loving within us the idea we hold
Of this most wondrous, steadfast thing, our love.




VIII


I have given all my heart to thee
As simply as a child
Giving a dewy flower, fresh and wild;
I pressed it to my lips and gave it thee—
I broke the flower's stem with burning hand;
Speak not, for words may hurt; but with thine eyes
Speak to my soul that it may understand.

The flow'r that is my heart, my sacrifice,
Tells thee quite simply that one must
Confide in virgin love, as children trust
In God who is so good and great and wise.

Let the bold spirit revel in the hills
In wilful dalliance and vanity,
But let us worship in simplicity
The very truth that holds our hearts and wills;
Nor can love be more fully said
Than when soul speaks to soul at