And, when he wished, he wove around his words A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard Could soften hardest soul; that he so still Could rouse the stillest mind: his face was sad. He spoke of death as if it were a toy For thought to play with; and of life he spoke As of a toy not worth the play of thought; And of this world he spoke as captives speak Of prisons where they pine; he spoke of men As one who found pure gold in each of them. He spoke of women just as if he dreamed About his mother; and he spoke of God As if he walked with Him and knew His heart -- But he was weary, and his face was sad. He had a weary way in all he did, As if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross; And yet the weary went to him for rest. His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. He seemed to have two selves -- his outer self Was free to any passer-by, and kind to all, And gentle as a child's; that outer self Kept open all its gates, that who so wished Might enter them and find therein a place; And many entered; but his face was sad. The inner self he guarded from approach, He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine; He guarded it with silence and reserve; Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass Beyond the portals; and his face was sad. But whoso entered there -- and few were they -- So very few -- so very, very few, They never did forget; they said: "How strange!" They murmured still: "How strange! how strangely strange!" They went their ways, but wore a lifted look, And higher meanings came to common words, And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones; And, near or far, they never did forget The "Shadow and the Shrine"; his face was sad. He was not young nor old -- yet he was both; Nor both by turns, but always both at once; For youth and age commingled in his ways, His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts, The child played thro' his words; his face was sad. I one day asked his age; he smiled and said: "The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast, Just born to-day, is not as young as I; The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms -- An acorn cradled ages long ago -- Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." It was his way -- he always answered thus, But when he did his face was very sad. * * * * * Spirit Song Thou wert once the purest wave Where the tempests roar; Thou art now a golden wave On the golden shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore! Thou wert once the bluest wave Shadows e'er hung o'er; Thou art now the brightest wave On the brightest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore! Thou wert once the gentlest wave Ocean ever bore; Thou art now the fairest wave On the fairest shore -- Ever -- ever -- evermore!