The Blow

THAT no man schemed it is my hope—Yea, that it fell by will and scopeOf That Which some enthrone,And for whose meaning myriads grope.

For I would not that of my kindThere should, of his unbiassed mind,Have been one knownWho such a stroke could have designed;

Since it would augur works and waysBelow the lowest that man assaysTo have hurled that stoneInto the sunshine of our days!

And if it prove that no man did,And that the Inscrutable, the Hid,Was cause aloneOf this foul crash our lives amid,

I’ll go in due time, and forgetIn some deep graveyard’s oublietteThe thing whereof I groan,And cease from troubling; thankful yet

Time’s finger should have stretched to showNo aimful author’s was the blowThat swept us prone,But the Immanent Doer’s That doth not know,

Which in some age unguessed of usMay lift Its blinding incubus,And see, and own:“It grieves me I did thus and thus!”

(Young Lover’s Reverie)

THE train draws forth from the station-yard,And with it carries me.I rise, and stretch out, and regardThe platform left, and seeAn airy slim blue form there standing,And know that it is she.

While with strained vision I watch on,The figure turns round quiteTo greet friends gaily; then is gone . . .The import may be slight,But why remained she not hard gazingTill I was out of sight?

“O do not chat with others there,”I brood. “They are not I.O strain your thoughts as if they wereGold bands between us; eyeAll neighbour scenes as so much blanknessTill I again am by!

“A troubled soughing in the breezeAnd the sky overheadLet yourself feel; and shadeful trees,Ripe corn, and apples red,Read as things barren and distastefulWhile we are separated!

“When I come back uncloak your gloom,And let in lovely day;Then the long dark as of the tombCan well be thrust awayWith sweet things I shall have to practise,And you will have to say!”