And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste; And think that, somewhere in the waste, The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Alone, alone, to where he sits, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, And looking back to whence I came, And crying, how changed from where it ran But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought, Ere thought could wed itself with Speech: 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: And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. AND was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? The very source and fount of Day Is dash'd with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look'd to human eyes Since Adam left his garden yet. And is it that the haze of grief Hath stretch'd my former joy so great? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win We saw not, when we moved therein ? XXV. I KNOW that this was Life, -the track But this it was that made me move Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. |