Anon it happen’d that through others’ hands My tales, pour’d forth to voice my loneliness In echoing talk and song, were framed in plays, And then were phrased in music; and, in time, Arose like sighings of a human wind Above a human sea, while, all about, There swept, like surgings of a rhythmic surf, The shifting scenes and singers of the stage. And, chief of all the singers in those throngs, Who best of all could body forth the truth That most of all had seem’d to be inspired By Edith’s influence, while in all I thought Her love had ever lured expression on, Was her own self. LXVII. But love outstrips my tale. Erelong, from shores where surged that surf of song, Like gems the ocean casts upon its coast, About me lay a growing store of wealth. And then, with broaden’d means, led on to push Toward broaden’d purposes, I spoke and wrote; And found, anon, while aiding here and there Where aid was rare, wide opening to my view, A worthiest mission in this new reform That seeks to make the server and the served Walk hand in hand, while wage gives way to share, And, furthering all men to their furthest due, Thus lifts the low and lost. LXVIII. At last, one day, There came a letter from our bureau’s head, With it, another, sent him, so he wrote, “By some enthusiast, a character— A woman, and a woman too of mind; And yet, withal, who had been strangely led, Through doubtful ways, he thought, toward doubtful ends, Till doubts had wrought reaction,—as when clouds That course on clouds, at last, bring lightnings forth That clear them off. And now her vision, clear’d, Had found within her soul a wish to work,— In new ways truly for a cause like ours,— For us and with us. But I held her note, She dwelt near by me: could I visit her? And give my judgment then?” LXIX.