Songs Of Two

A poem by Arthur Sherburne Hardy


Last night I dreamed this dream: That I was dead;
And as I slept, forgot of man and God,
That other dreamless sleep of rest,
I heard a footstep on the sod,
As of one passing overhead,
And lo, thou, Dear, didst touch me on the breast,
Saying: "What shall I write against thy name
That men should see?"
Then quick the answer came,
"I was beloved of thee."


Dear Giver of Thyself when at thy side,
I see the path beyond divide,
Where we must walk alone a little space,
I say: "Now am I strong indeed
To wait with only memory awhile,
Content, until I see thy face, "
Yet turn, as one in sorest need,
To ask once more thy giving grace,
So, at the last
Of all our partings, when the night
Has hidden from my failing sight
The comfort of thy smile,
My hand shall seek thine own to hold it fast;
Nor wilt thou think for this the heart ingrate,
Less glad for all its past,
Less strong to bear the utmost of its fate.


As once through forest shade I went,
I heard a flower call, and bent
Then strove to go. Should love not spare?
"Nay, Dearest, this is love's sweet share
Of selfishness. For which is best,
To die alone or on thy breast?
If thou hast heard my call,
Take fearlessly, thou art my guest
To give is all"
Hush! O Love, thou casuist!


Ask me not why, I only know,
It were thy loss if I could show
Thee cause as for a lesser thing.
Remember how we searched the spring,
But found no source, so clear the sky
Within its earth bound depths did lie,
Give to thy joy its wings,
And to thy heart its song, nor try
With questionings
The throbbing throat that sings.


For in thy clear and steadfast eyes
Thine own self wonder deepest lies,
Nor any words that lips can teach
Are sweeter than their wonder speech.
And when thou givest them to me,
Through dawns of tenderness I see,
As in the water-sky,
The sun of certainly appear.
So, ask me why,
For then thou knowest, Dear.


To give is more than to receive, men say.
But thou hast made them one! What if, some day,
Men bade me render back the gifts I cannot pay,
Since all were undeserved! should I obey?
Lo, all these years of giving, when we try
To own our thanks, we hear the giver cry;
"Nay, it was thou who givest, Dear, not I."
If Wisdom smile, let Wisdom go!
All things above
This is the truest; that we know because we love,
Not love because we know.


Let it not grieve thee, Dear, that Love is sad,
Who, changeless, loveth so the things that change,
The morning in thine eyes, the dusk within thy hair,
Were it not strange
If he were glad
Who cannot keep thy heart from care,
Or shelter from the whip of pain
The bosom where his head hath lain?
Poor sentinel, that may not guard
The door that love itself unbarred!
Who in the sweetness
Of his service knows its incompleteness,
And while he sings
Of life eternal, feels the coldness of Death's wings.


Stoop with me, Dearest, to the grass
One little moment ere we pass
From out these parched and thirsty lands,
See! all these tiny blades are hands
Stretched supplicating to the sky,
And listen, Dearest, patiently,
Dost thou not hear them move?
The myriad roots that search, and cry
As hearts do, Love,
"Feed us, or let us die!"


Beloved, when far up the mountain side
We found, almost at eventide,
Our spring, how far we did fear
Lest it should dare the trackless wood
And disappear!
And lost all heart when on the crest we stood
And saw it spent in mist below!
Yet ever surer was its flow,
And, ever gathering to its own
New springs of which we had not known,
To fairer meadows
Swept exultant from the woodland shadows;
And when at last upon the baffling plain
We thought it scattered like a ravelled skein,
Lo, tranquil, free,
Its longed-for home, the wide unfathomable sea!


Thy names are like sweet flowers that grow
Within a garden where I go,
Sometimes at dawn, to see each one
Life its head proudly in the sun;
Sometimes at night,
When only by the fragrant air,
I know them there.
And none are grieved or think I slight
Their worth, if closest to my breast,
This one I take which holds within its own
Each single fragrance of the rest,
My friend, my friend!
And as I loved it first alone,
So shall I love it to the end,
For none were half so dear were it not best.


My every purpose fashioned by some thought of thee,
Though as a feather's weight that shapes the arrow's flight it be;
No single joy complete in which thou hast no fee,
Though thy share be the star and mine its shadow in the sea;
Thy very pulse my pulse, thy every prayer my prayer.
Thy love my blue o'erreaching sky that bounds me everywhere,
Yet free, Beloved, free! for this encircling air
I cannot leave behind, doth but love's boundlessness declare.


Last night the angel of remembrance brought
Me while I slept think, Dear! of all his store
Just that one memory I thought
Banished forever from our door!
Thy sob of pain when once I hurt thee sure.
Then in my dream I suddenly was ware
Of God above me saying: "Reach
Thy hand to Me in prayer,
And I will give thee pardon yet."
Thou? Nay, she hath forgiven, teach
Her to forget.


Love me not, Dearest, for the smile,
The tender greeting, or the wile
By which, unconscious of its road,
My soul seeks thine in its abode;
Nor say "I love thee of thine eyes, "
For when Death shuts them, where thy skies?
But love me for my love,
Then am I safe from all surprise,
And thou above
The loss of all that dies.


Dear hands, forgiving hands,
There is no speech so sure as thing.
Lips falter with so much
To tell, eyes fill with thoughts I scarce divine,
But thy least touch
Soul understands.
Dear giving, taking hands,
There are no gifts so free as thine.
One last gem from the heart of the mine,
One last cup from the veins of the vine,
From the rose to the wind one last sweet breath,
Then poverty, and death!
But thy dear palms
Are richest empty, asking alms.


A little moment at the end
Of day, left over in the candle light
On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
Too small to throw away,
Too poor to keep!
But it holds two words for thee, dear Friend,
Good-night, Good night!
And so this remnant of the day,
Left over in the candle-light
On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
Becomes too great to throw away,
Too dear to keep!


Beloved, when I read some fine conceit,
Wherein are wrought as in glass
The features love hath made so sweet,
I marvel at so bold an art;
Seeing thou art too dear to praise
Upon the highway where men pass.
For when I seek
To tell the ways
God's hand of tenderness
Hath touched thine earthly part,
Again I hear
Thy first own cry of happiness,
And, sweetest of God's sounds, the dear
Remonstrance of thy giving heart,
And cannot speak!


Across the plain of Time
I saw them marching all night long,
The endless throng
Of all who ever dared to fight with wrong.
All the blood of their hearts, the prime
And crown of their fleeting years,
All the toil of their hands, the tears
Of their eyes, the thought of their brain,
For a word from the lips of Truth,
For a glimpse of the scroll of Fate,
Ere love and youth
Were spent in vain,
And even truth too late!
Oh, when the Silence speaks, and the scroll
Unrolls to the eye of the soul,
What will it be that shall pay the cost
Of the pain gone waste and the labor lost!
And then, Dear, waking, I saw you -
And knew.


We thought when Love at last should come,
The rose would lose its thorn,
And every lip but Joy's be dumb
When Love, sweet Love, was born;
That never tears should start to rise,
No night o'ertake our morn,
Nor any guest of grief surprise,
When Love, sweet Love, was born.

And when he came, O Heart of mine!
And stood within our door,
No joy our dreaming could divine
Was missing from his store.
The thorns shall wound our hearts again,
But not the fear of yore,
for all the guests of grief and pain
Shall serve him evermore.


Dost thou remember, Dear, the day
We met in those bare woods of May?
Each had a secret unconfessed,
Each sound a promise, in each nest.
Young wings a-tremble for the air,
How we joined hands? not knowing where
The springs that touch set free
Should find their sea.
Speechless so sure we were to share
The unknown good to be.


The woods are bare again. There are
No secrets now, the bud's a scar;
No promises, this is the end!
Ah, Dearest, I have seen thee bend
Above thy flowers as one who knew
The dying wood should bloom anew.
Come, let us sleep, Perchance
God's countenance,
Like thine above thy flowers, smiles through
The night upon us two.

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