So, lapt in a delightsome consciousness, Half haze, a kind of infant consciousness, Of being changed to other than before, Shimei slid sweetly on in reverie-- No words, nay, thoughts even not, pure reverie; But if that mist of musing in his mind Had into thoughts, like star-dust into stars, Been orbed, their purport such as this had been: 'I miss it, and I feel that I should grope Vainly to find in me the power that once Was ever mine to be my proper self. All standing-ground seems melted under me, Planted whereon I might with hope resist. It is all emptiness, all nothingness About me, I am utter helplessness. Yet somehow it is blesséd helplessness! Let Him do with me as He will, Who now Is dealing thus with me through these! O ye, His ministers, O, holy women, ye, Behold, I give myself through you to Him! Ye have conquered me for Him at last with love. No weapons have I to withstand such might. Tell Paul that he and ye have overcome For that both he and ye were overcome Yourselves first by the love that made you love Even me, even me, even me, grown gray in sin, Such sin, amid such light, against such love! Forgive ye me, forgive, forgive, forgive, And pray ye all that I may be forgiven Of Him to Whom henceforth, unworthy I To be at all accepted to such thrall, I give myself forever up a slave!' Thus Shimei, in his formless fantasy, Which being nor word, nor thought, still less was will, Mused, like a river lapsing to the sea; So softly did an inner current draw Him unresisting whither it desired. It seemed to Shimei, in that strong access And overflow of feeling new to him, As if it would be easy to speak out. Nay, but as if he must at once speak out, Aloud, for those to hear toward whom he now Felt this delicious love and longing; yet He never did so speak, alas, but wronged Himself, wronged them, refraining; more, the Spirit Of grace nigh quenched with silence! So it fared With Shimei then, self-shut from needful speech, As might it with some tender plant denied Its freedom of the sun and air, that peaks And pines and cannot open into flower. Perhaps the habit of his heart life-long Was winter all too fast for any spring To solve; perhaps he could not, if he would, Unbind its cold constriction from himself For welcome and exchange of sweet good-will Such as he felt rife round him in the air, Wooing him, like bland weather, toward full bloom In frank affections and fair courtesies. Sad, if indeed the faculty in him Of finer feeling and the word to fit Were lost through long disuse, or by abuse!