Not over roof and spire doth Heaven lie, Star-sentinelled from our humanity, Beyond the humble reach of every day. And only near us when we weep or pray; But rather in the household and the street, Where loudest is the noise of hurrying feet, Where hearts beat thickest, where our duties call, Where watchers sit, where tears in silence fall. We know not, or forget, there is no line That marks our human off from our divine; For all one household, all one family In different chamberings labouring are we; God leaves the doors between them open wide, Knowing how life and death are close allied, And though across the threshold, in the gloom, We cannot see into that other room, It may be that the dear ones watching there Can hear our cry of passionate despair, And wait unseen to lead us through the door When twilight comes, and all our work is o’er. _January, 1877._ [Illustration] “Maiden, Arise.” She, whom through life her God forbade to hear The voices of her nearest and most dear, So that she dwelt, amid the hum and rush Of cities, in a vast, eternal hush, Yet heard the first low calling of the voice That others had not heeded in the noise, And rising, when it whispered “Come with me,” Followed the form that others could not see, Smiling, perchance, in death at last to hear The voices of the Angels fill her ear, While the great, silent void that closed her round Was overflowed with rippled floods of sound, And the dumb past in Alleluias drowned. _March, 1877._ [Illustration] Spring. A Fragment. HILDEGARD. It is the time when everything Is flusht with presage of the Spring, When every leaf and twig and bud Feels new life rushing like a flood Through greening veins and bursting tips; When every hour a sunbeam slips Across a sleepy flower’s mouth, And wakes it, babbling of the South; When birds are doubtful where or how To hang their nests on trunk or bough, And all that is in wood or croft Beneath an influence balmy-soft Towards the light begins to strive, Feeling how good it is to live! WALTHER. How beautiful thou standest there, Thyself a prophet of the May! The shining of thy golden hair Would melt December’s snows away. The roses on thy cheeks would woo Forth envious blossoms from their sleeps. And robins plume their breasts anew To mock the crimson of thy lips. HILDEGARD.