He looks from the window now, his thought having time to close upon himself. He holds up his busy, solitary life to God, with a happy smile. He goes back to that bitter past, shrinking; but he knows its meaning now. As the warm evening wanes into coolness and gray, the one unspoken pain of his life comes back, and whitens his cheerful face. There is blood on his hands. He sees the old man's gray hairs blown again by the wind, sees him stagger and fall. Gaunt covers his bony face with his hands, but he cannot shut it out. Yet he is learning to look back on even that with healthy, hopeful eyes. He reads over again each day the misspelled words in the Bible,--thinking that the old man's haggard face looks down on him with the old kindly, forgiving smile. What if his blood be on his hands? He looks up now through the gathering night, into the land where spirits wait for us, as one who meets a friend's face, saying,-- "Let it be true what you have writ,--'The _Lord_ be between me and thee,' forever!" EUPHORION. "I will not longer Earth-bound linger: Loosen your hold on Hand and on ringlet. Girdle and garment; Leave them: they're mine!" "Bethink thee, bethink thee To whom thou belongest! Say, wouldst thou wound us, Rudely destroying Threefold the beauty,-- Mine, his, and thine?" FAUST,--SECOND PART. Nay, fold your arms, beloved Friends, Above the hearts that vainly beat! Or catch the rainbow where it bends, And find your darling at its feet; Or fix the fountain's varying shape, The sunset-cloud's elusive dye, The speech of winds that round the cape Make music to the sea and sky: So may you summon from the air The loveliness that vanished hence, And Twilight give his beauteous hair, And Morning give his countenance, And Life about his being clasp Her rosy girdle once again:-- But no! let go your stubborn grasp On some wild hope, and take your pain! For, through the crystal of your tears, His love and beauty fairer shine; The shadows of advancing years Draw back, and leave him all divine. And Death, that took him, cannot claim The smallest vesture of his birth,-- The little life, a dancing flame That hovered o'er the hills of earth,-- The finer soul, that unto ours A subtle perfume seemed to be, Like incense blown from April flowers Beside the scarred and stormy tree,-- The wondering eyes, that ever saw Some fleeting mystery in the air, And felt the stars of evening draw His heart to silence, childhood's prayer! Our suns were all too fierce for him; Our rude winds pierced him through and through; But Heaven has valleys cool and dim, And boscage sweet with starry dew. There knowledge breathes in balmy air, Not wrung, as here, with panting breast: The wisdom born of toil you share; But he, the wisdom born of rest.