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SONG FROM “AGATHA.”
The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
And I am lonely.
And I am lonely. The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,
And I am lonely.
MIDNIGHT by the chapel bell!
Heart of Mary, bless the way,
Moon and stars at feast with night
Heart of Mary, mystic rose,
He was the elder and a little man
Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,
Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the
best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men grew blind, though angels knew the
If he said " Hush!” I tried to hold my breath; Wherever he said “Come!” I stepped in faith.
So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued. A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burthen of the world.
Long years have left their writing on my brow,
But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam Of those young mornings are about me now,
When we two wandered toward the far-off stream
With rod and line. Our basket held a store
Baked for us only, and I thought with joy That I should have my share, though he had more,
Because he was the elder and a boy.
The firmaments of daisies since to me
Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, The bunchéd cowslip's pale transparency
Carries that sunshine of sweet memories,
And wild-rose branches take their finest scent From those blest hours of infantine content.
Laboriously tracing what must be,
Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways,
Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, Then with the benediction of her gaze
Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still