“And when the thought is in one, when it springs, Why, then, not let it spring? The world is not So fill’d with thoughts that it can spare our own. And if we startle folks, jog off the guise Of their deceit, we spy them as they are. Between souls thus discover’d, Edith deems That love must flow; while friendship caught by craft Is lost by confidence. I think her right. Why not? We all when in our noblest moods Crave homage for our souls’ nobility. But what our souls are in themselves, who know, Save as our rôles report us outwardly? Did not divine hands form us as we are? Who love us as we are, love higher things Than those who love what earth would make of us.” “My champion!” Edith cried; and waved her thanks, With white sleeves fluttering from her shapely sides— Ah me, a wing’d one sent to save my soul Had scarcely stirr’d in me a greater joy. XIX. My mien must have reveal’d it. Like a lake, Whose fogs unfold, when comes a genial sun, Her moods unfolded to my sympathy; And, brightly imaged in her nature’s depths, I seem’d, at every turn, to face my own. So new to me such views were, that I felt As thrill’d as feels the savage maid, when first She finds her own face in a stranger’s glass, Then spell-bound lingers, learning of herself. So wrapt, my wonder hung, all wistfully, About that spirit bright. What meant it all? I could not then believe,—I scout it yet,— That mortals can afford to slight the souls Reflecting theirs, who make them mind themselves And prize the good they own, and dread the ill. You smile, friend: yes; and often so would I. My head would oft, made jealous of my heart, Deny that reason ruled my impulses. And oft my heart, to bear such weight of joy, Would faint from too much feeling. I would ask Could I be sane yet find my life so sweet?— At least I would be sure; so like a friend Who finds a long-lost friend amid a crowd, And stares, and holds him at arm’s length, a time, Ere clasping him with courage to his breast That wellnigh bursts the while, I held her off, This long-sought soul that mine had found a friend; And did not dare to trust her as I would. XX. What struggles then were mine! Too cautious grown, To dare to risk a fall, though but in love, How would I brace my powers against her charms That might unbalance me! How would my will, That strove to master my reluctant mien, Make stiff my every smile! or, were my heart Too strong to be suppress’d, how would I thwart And turn each glance that could reveal one glimpse Of how I loved her, toward her sister first! Unconscious Edith,—could she read deceit?— ’Twas all I dared to use. How could I else, Poor fool, that then I felt myself to be, Hide my infatuation! XXI.