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I do not know ; nor will I vainly question
The story still untold,
Until “The End” I read.
THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD.
BURN, O evening hearth
, and waken
Pleasant visions, as of old ! Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe I keep this room of gold !
Ah, no longer wizard Fancy
Builds her castles in the air Luring me by necromancy
Up the never-ending stair
But, instead, she builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine, Where beneath the gusty ridges
Cataracts dash and roar unseen.
The Bridge of Oloud.
And I cross them, little heeding
Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding
Footsteps that have gone before.
Naught avails the imploring gesture,
Naught avails the cry of pain ! When I touch the flying vesture,
'Tis the gray robe of the rain.
Baffled I return, and leaning
O'er the parapets of cloud,
Wraps the valley in its shroud.
And the sounds of life ascending
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending
With the rush of waters near.
The Bridge of Cloud.
Well I know what there lies hidden,
Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden
Reassumes its vanished charm,
Well I know the secret places,
And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces,
In what hearts are thoughts of me.
Through the mist and darkness sinking,
Blown by wind and beaten by shower, Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,
Down I toss this Alpine flower.
MAY 23, 1864.
OW beautiful it was, that one bright day
In the long week of rain ! Though all its splendour could not chase away
The omnipresent pain.
The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,
And the great elms o'erhead
Shot through with golden thread.
Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,
The historic river flowed ;
I was as one who wanders in a trance,
Unconscious of his road.