Meaningless to me, Who knew the meaning that had once informed Its faithless numbers, what way could I hope That, to my own, or any future age, My work should speak its full significance? My latest child, begot in manly joy, Conceived in purity, and born in toil, Lay dead before me,--dead, and in the shroud My hopeful hands had woven and bedecked To be its chrisom. Then the first I learned Where language finds its bound--learned that beyond The range of human commerce, save by force, It never moves, nor lingers in the realm It thus invades, a moment, if the voice Of human commerce speak not the demand;-- That language is a thing of use;--that thought Which seeks a revelation, first must seek Adjustment in the scale of human need, Or find no fitting vehicle. And more: That the great Possible which lies outside The range of commerce is identical With the stupendous Infinite of God, Which only comes in glimpses, or in hints Of vague significance, so dim, so vast, That subtlest, most prehensile language, shrinks From plucking of its robes, the while they sweep The perfumed air! I closed my manuscript, And locked it in my desk. Then stealing forth, I sought the bustle of the street, to drown In the great roar of careless toil, the pain That brings despair. My last resource was gone; And as I brooded o'er the awful blank Of hopeless life that waited for my steps, A fear which I had feared to entertain Found entrance to my heart, and held it still, Almost to bursting. Not alone my life Was sliding from me; for my better life, My pearl of price, the jewel in my crown, My wife Kathrina, growing lovelier With every passing day, arose each morn From wasting dreams to paler loveliness, And sank in growing weariness each night, And hotter hectic, to her welcome bed. Her bed! The sweet, the precious nuptial bed! Bed sanctified by love! Bed blest of God With fruit immortal! Bed too soon to be Crowned with the glory of a Christian death! Ah God! How it brought back the agony, And the rebellious hate of other years-- The hopeless struggle of my will with Him Whose will is law! Thus torn with mingled thought: Of fear, despair and spite, I wore away Miles of wild wandering about the streets, Till weariness at last compelled my feet To drag me to my home.