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From “In Memoriam”
XXII. THE PATH by which we twain did go, | |
| Which led by tracts that pleased us well, | |
| Through four sweet years arose and fell, | |
| From flower to flower, from snow to snow. * * * * * | |
| But where the path we walked began | 5 |
| To slant the fifth autumnal slope, | |
| As we descended, following Hope, | |
| There sat the Shadow feared of man; * * * * * | |
| Who broke our fair companionship, | |
| And spread his mantle dark and cold, | 10 |
| And wrapped thee formless in the fold, | |
| And dulled the murmur on thy lip. | |
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XXIII.
* * * * * When each by turns was guide to each, | |
| And Fancy light from Fancy caught, | |
| And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought | 15 |
| Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; | |
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| And all we met was fair and good, | |
| And all was good that Time could bring, | |
| And all the secret of the Spring | |
| Moved in the chambers of the blood; | 20 |
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XXV. I know that this was Life,—the track | |
| Whereon with equal feet we fared; | |
| And then, as now, the day prepared | |
| The daily burden for the back. | |
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| But this it was that made me move | 25 |
| As light as carrier-birds in air; | |
| I loved the weight I had to bear | |
| Because it needed help of Love: | |
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| Nor could I weary, heart or limb, | |
| When mighty Love would cleave in twain | 30 |
| The lading of a single pain, | |
| And part it, giving half to him. | |
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LXXXIV.
* * * * * But I remained, whose hopes were dim, | |
| Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, | |
| To wander on a darkened earth, | 35 |
| Where are all things round me breathed of him. | |
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| O friendship, equal-poised control, | |
| O heart, with kindliest motion warm, | |
| O sacred essence, other form, | |
| O solemn ghost, O crownèd soul! | 40 |
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| Yet none could better know than I, | |
| How much of act at human hands | |
| The sense of human will demands, | |
| By which we dare to live or die. | |
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| Whatever way my days decline, | 45 |
| I felt and feel, though left alone, | |
| His being working in mine own, | |
| The footsteps of his life in mine. * * * * * | |
| My pulses therefore beat again | |
| For other friends that once I met; | 50 |
| Nor can it suit me to forget | |
| The mighty hopes that make us men. | |
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| I woo your love: I count it crime | |
| To mourn for any overmuch; | |
| I, the divided half of such | 55 |
| A friendship as had mastered Time; | |
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| Which masters Time, indeed, and is | |
| Eternal, separate from fears: | |
| The all-assuming months and years | |
| Can take no part away from this. * * * * *
CXVI. O days and hours, your work is this, | 60 |
| To hold me from my proper place, | |
| A little while from his embrace, | |
| For fuller gain of after bliss: | |
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| That out of distance might ensue | |
| Desire of nearness doubly sweet; | 65 |
| And unto meeting when we meet, | |
| Delight a hundred-fold accrue. * * * * *
CXXII.
* * * * * The hills are shadows, and they flow | |
| From form to form, and nothing stands; | |
| They melt like mist, the solid lands, | |
| Like clouds they shape themselves and go. | 70 |
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| But in my spirit will I dwell, | |
| And dream my dream, and hold it true; | |
| For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, | |
| I cannot think the thing farewell. | |
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