Now, while the heaven of night grows vast above her, The soul from her lone dream has sure release; The tumult and the ancient struggles cease-- The wars that Beauty wages on her lover Dwindle into a peace, When Schumann speaks so firmly and so sadly, And all the twilight rustles, wave on wave. O, at that smile his wondering spirit gave, What new smile in all things shines back so gladly, Grown dignified and grave! The curtains by the window rise and flutter, The ornaments on the mantel, row on row, Seem touched with a melancholy of long ago-- What is it the music dreams, but cannot utter? Schumann--we know, we know. Ah George, what shall be said to you who feel it-- All the half-hope and passion unexpressed When twilight heaves more gently in the breast! Ah George, but you, when words would fain reveal it, Smile--and divine the rest. O wrap me in Beethoven’s storm and thunder! My baffled spirit, with abated breath, Flutters upon the verge of life and death-- And all my being, whirled along in wonder, Dies between breath and breath. Let me endure, within a single pulsing Of the quick heart, in a storm of showering rain Of sound, all joy, all grief--each breath again Live through a life complete, in one convulsing Moment of rapturous pain! Silence--the lamplight, through the window streaming, Falls on the listless keyboard, smooth and white-- Remembered music dreams in the dull light; And you, too, George, sit silently and dreaming, Alone, into the night. THE DEAR MYSTERY Joy, and the triumph and the doom of gladness Make in my breast a music sweet as sadness; Shall I not sing for sorrow, and again Cry out, for the sheer joyousness of pain! For all life’s moods go murmuring like strings In a low chord, and all things sound all things, Through alternations of the grave and glad: Yet, in the end, all things are grave and sad. I feel all things, but cannot comprehend; And run, laughing and weeping, to the end Of the dear mystery, the fated race-- And the deep darkness covers up my face. IN THE DARK CITY There is a harper plays Through the long watches of the lonely night When, like a cemetery, Sleeps the dark city, with her millions, laid each in his tomb. I feel it in my dream, but when I wake-- Suddenly, like some secret thing not to be overheard, It ceases-- And the gray night grows dumb Only in memory Linger those veiled adagios, fading, fading ... Till, with the morning, they are lost. What door was opened then? What worlds, undreamed of, lie around us in our sleep, That yet we may not know? Where is it one sat playing Over and over, with such high and dreadful peace, The passion and sorrow of the eternal doom? II SPACE AND SOLITUDE IMMENSITY