No; but in despite Of all vigils set, Do I bind me to thee yet,--strangest thing of Light! Only, all, for thee Whatsoe'er thou art, Smiling through the blinded heart, things it cannot see. Very Soul's Desire, Take my life; and live By the rapture thine doth give, ecstasy of fire! Hold thy golden breath! For I feel,--not hear-- Spent with joy and fear to lose thee, all the song it saith. Light, light, my own: Do not thou disown Thy poor keeper-of-the-light, for Light's sake alone. _The dark had left no speech save hand-in-hand Between us two the while, with others near. Mine questioned thine with 'Why should I be here?' 'Yet bide thou here,' said thine, 'and understand.'_ _And mine was mute; but strove not then to go; And hid itself, and murmured, 'Do not hear The listening in my heart!' Said thine, 'My Dear, I will not hear it, ever. But I know.'_ _Said mine to thine: 'Let be. Now will I go!-- For you are saying,--you who do not speak, This hand-in-hand is one day cheek-to-cheek!' And said thy hand around me, 'Even so.'_ _Then mine to thine.--'Yea, I have been alone; --Yet happy.--This is strange. This is not I! You hold me, but you can not tell me why.' And said thy hand to mine again, 'My Own.'_ THE PROPHET All day long he kept the sheep:-- Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep. Where he dipped the water's cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full. Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld! --Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread. Vaguely blessèd in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eves, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves. Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands, and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here. Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart. When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,-- Even from the light that clung. Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the thronging memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed. Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own.