Strange, how a man may carry in his heart, From year to year--through all his life, indeed-- A truth, or a conviction, which shall be No more a part of it, and no more worth Than to his flask the cork that slips within! Of this he learns by sourness of his wine, Of muddle of its color; by the bits That vex his lips while drinking; but he feels No impulse in his hand to draw it forth, And bid it crown and keep the draught it spoils. I write this, here, not for its relevance To this one passage of my story, but Because there slipped into my consciousness Just at this juncture, and would not depart, A truth I carried there for many years, Each minute seeing, feeling, tasting it, Yet never touching it with an attempt To draw it forth, and put it to its place. One evening, when our usual theme was up, I asked my wife in playful earnestness How she became so wise. "You talk," I said, "Like one who has survived a thousand years, And drunk the wisdom of a thousand lives." "Who lacketh wisdom, let him ask of God, Who giveth freely and upbraideth not," Was her reply. "I never ask of God," I said. "So, while you take at second hand His breathings to the artist, I will take At second hand the wisdom that he gives To you his teacher." "Do you never pray?" "Never," I answered her. "I cannot pray: You know the reason. Never since the day God shut his heart against my mother's prayer Have I raised one petition, or been moved To reverence." Her long, dark lashes fell, And from her eyes there dropped two precious tears That bathed her folded hands. She pitied me, With tenderness beyond the reach of words. I did not seek her pity. I was proud, And asked her if she blamed me. "No," she said; "I have no right to blame you, and no wish. I marvel only that a man like you Can hold so long the errors of a boy. I've looked--with how much longing, words of mine Can never tell--for reason to restore That priceless thing which passion stole from you, And looked in vain." Though piqued by the reproach Her words conveyed (unwittingly I knew), I wished to learn where, in her theory Of human life, my case had found a place; So, bidding pride aback, I questioned her. "You are so wise in other things," I said, "And read so well God's dealings with his own, Perhaps you can explain this mystery That clouds my life." "I know that God is good," She answered, "and, although my reason fail To explicate the mystery that wraps His providence, it does not shake my faith. But this sad case of yours has seemed so plain, That Reason well may spare the staff of Faith To climb to its conclusions. You are loved, My husband: can you tell your wife for what?"