Classic Poem

The Stranger .

Shall I succeed? The doubt obtrudes itself;
I have been wrong, and clearly see wherein.
Thought is not solitary, rather grows
From contact of all souls; you break the charm,
And enter Fancy's changeful realm, who hope
From thought's mere exercise to build up truth.
My little girl will be an avenue,
A flower-fringed way to lead my footsteps back;
I hear her laugh sound through my vacant rooms,
And the large house recovers life and soul,
Touched by her magic finger; as in the tale,
A myriad hopes and possibilities,
And many fair delights have fallen asleep
In the wide kingdom of my heart; and she,
My princess, wakens all in this changed version
Of fairy-lore remote. I cast off fear,
I throw aside the cold reserve of years,
I mix with the deep life of human kind;
I know their joys, I feel the wondrous thrills
Of ecstasy that are their common fare,
I stand no more aloof; is it not true
That feeling holds the All dissolved as pearl
The Egyptian queen drank off in ruby wine?
I face the twin infinities; lo! Thought,
Amid whose placid plains and silver streams
These many years my constant feet have gone;
Lo! Bliss, a sea on which I dare to float.
I see the sister hold the brother's hand,
And melt division of the bodily frame
In one sweet innocent joy; I see the child
Stand by its mother's knee, and in their eyes
Their souls are one; I see friend walk with friend,
And the mild stream of converse is themselves,
No more dissevered, but each mixed with each;
The husband holds his wife against his breast,
And in the rapture of their beating hearts,
Fair marriage of two souls is consummate.
And lo! the world of passion; shall I quake,
And shudder back when these fierce gates expand?
The lover scatters kisses on his mistress' lips,
As in the wood, which a dim stillness holds,
The rose-leaves fall upon the moist soft grass;
Vague thrills of fear and hope assail his breath,
And in a dream he swoons, wherein his queen
Is mystic mistress of the winds and streams,
And naught is but themselves; and e'en the depths
Of mad delights, where still the soul is torn
By gusts of joy and hate, I dare explore;
The goddess of all lovers, pale and wan,
I see within her caverned mount, and him,
The knight who bartered life and hope for her,
Who chose sad love in lieu of God's own bliss.
But now an end, I must no longer rave;
I dare not trust that she will walk beside me,
And if I fail, I give up all attempt.
The trouble comes, I sacrifice the higher,
Pure intellect, to what is of the lower born
Perchance, and on that way is certain death.
Oh, wretched that I cannot cling to one,
But must bewilder me with many aims.
It is not done, they will refuse, I think,
And I shall have again my waveless calm;
That were the best, perhaps; — what is the right?
Will they forego to see her, hear her, love her?
Have I the right to tear from mother's side
The child, and be a double criminal?
Criminal — harsh word, nor yet devoid of truth.
Down with these fears! For once I am a man,
A doer in the endless whirl of things,
No passive looker-on; what comes will come!
Meanwhile I put forth utmost power of hand
To grasp the fruit has pleased my eager sense.
I will give over thought, the balancing
Of many points of view, adjustment nice
Of motives filmy as the woven air,
Or quickly-vanishing mist, unravelling
Of elements fine as outspread web of light,
That garments the bright sky, a chemistry
Of spirit or of dream; lo! I will act
And bathe me in the stream of consequence,
Whereby I shall be man past what has been,
Yea, be in truth the deed, the power of God!