We're German scholars poring over life, As over a Greek manuscript that's torn And stained beyond repair. Our eyes of horn Read one or two poor letters; and what strife, What books on books begotten for their sake! But we enjoy it; and meanwhile neglect The line that's left us perfect from the wrecked Rich argosy, clear beyond doubts to make Conjectures of. So in my universe Of scribbled half-hid meanings you appear, Sole perfect symbol of the highest sphere; And life's great matrix crystal, whose depths nurse Soul's infinite reflections, glows in you With now uncertain radiance... THE WALK. I. THROUGH THE SUBURBS. Provincial Sunday broods above the town: The street's asleep; through a dim window drifts A small romance that hiccoughs up and down An air all trills and runs and sudden lifts To yearning sevenths poised ... not Chopin quite, But, oh, romantic; a tinsel world made bright With rose and honeysuckle's paper blooms, And where the moon's blue limelight and the glooms Of last-act scenes of passion are discreet. And when the tinkling stops and leaves the street Blank in the sunlight of the afternoon You feel a curtain dropped. Poor little tune! Perhaps our grandmother's dull girlhood days Were fired by you with radiances of pink, Heavenly, brighter far than she could think Anything might be ... till a greater blaze Tinged life's horizon, when he kissed her first, Our grandpapa. But a thin ghost still plays In music down the street, echoing the plaint Of far romance with its own sadder song Of Everyday; and as they walk along,... The young man and the woman, deep immersed In all the suburb-comedy around ... They seem to catch coherence in the sound Of that ghost-music, and the words come faint:-- Oh the months and the days, Oh sleeps and dinners, Oh the planning of ways And quotidian means! Oh endless vistas of mutton and greens, Oh weekly mimblings of prayer and praise, Oh Evenings with All the Winners! Monday sends the clothes to the wash And Saturday brings them home again: Mon Dieu, la vie est par trop moche And Destiny is a sale caboche; But I'll give you heaven In a dominant seven, And you shall not have lived in vain.