Yea, earth is generous. The trees Strip nude as birth-time without fear, And their reward is year by year To feel their fulness but increase.
The law of Nature is to give, To give, to give! and to rejoice In giving with a generous voice, And so trust G.o.d and truly live.
But see this miser at the last,-- This man who loves, grasps hold of gold, Who grasps it with such eager hold, To hold forever hard and fast:
As if to hold what G.o.d lets go; As if to hold, while all around Lets go, and drops upon the ground All things as generous as snow.
Let go your greedy hold, I say!
Let go your hold! Do not refuse "Till death comes by and shakes you loose, And sends you shamed upon your way.
What if the sun should keep his gold?
The rich moon lock her silver up?
What if the gold-clad b.u.t.tercup Became a miser, mean and old?
Ah, me! the coffins are so true In all accounts, the shrouds so thin, That down there you might sew and sew, Nor ever sew one pocket in.
And all that you can hold of lands Down there, below the gra.s.s, down there, Will only be that little share You hold in your two dust-full hands.
XII.
She comes! she comes! The stony floor Speaks out! And now the rusty door At last has just one word this day, With mute religious lips, to say.
She comes! she comes! And lo, her face Is upward, radiant, fair as prayer!
So pure here in this holy place, Where holy peace is everywhere.
Her upraised face, her face of light And loveliness, from duty done, Is like a rising orient sun That pushes back the brow of night.
How brave, how beautiful is truth!
Good deeds untold are like to this.
But fairest of all fair things is A pious maiden in her youth:
A pious maiden as she stands Just on the threshold of the years That throb and pulse with hopes and fears, And reaches G.o.d her helpless hands.
How fair is she! How fond is she!
Her foot upon the threshold there.
Her breath is as a blossomed tree,-- This maiden mantled in her hair!
Her hair, her black, abundant hair, Where night, inhabited all night And all this day, will not take flight, But finds content and houses there.
Her hands are clasped, her two small hands; They hold the holy book of prayer Just as she steps the threshold there, Clasped downward where she silent stands.
XIII.
Once more she lifts her lowly face, And slowly lifts her large, dark eyes Of wonder; and in still surprise She looks full forward in her place.
She looks full forward on the air Above the tomb, and yet below The fruits of gold, the blooms of snow, As looking--looking anywhere.
She feels--she knows not what she feels; It is not terror, is not fear, But there is something that reveals A presence that is near and dear.
She does not let her eyes fall down, They lift against the far profound: Against the blue above the town Two wide-winged vultures circle round.
Two brown birds swim above the sea,-- Her large eyes swim as dreamily And follow far, and follow high, Two circling black specks in the sky.
One forward step,--the closing door Creaks out, as frightened or in pain; Her eyes are on the ground again-- Two men are standing close before.
"My love," sighs one, "my life, my all!"
Her lifted foot across the sill Sinks down,--and all things are so still You hear the orange blossoms fall.
But fear comes not where duty is, And purity is peace and rest; Her cross is close upon her breast, Her two hands clasp hard hold of this.
Her two hands clasp cross, book, and she Is strong in tranquil purity,-- Ay, strong as Samson when he laid His two hands forth, and bowed and prayed.
One at her left, one at her right, And she between, the steps upon,-- I can but see that Syrian night, The women there at early dawn
"Tis strange, I know, and may be wrong, But ever pictured in my song; And rhyming on, I see the day They came to roll the stone away.
XIV.
The sky is like an opal sea, The air is like the breath of kine, But oh her face is white, and she Leans faint to see a lifted sign,--
To see two hands lift up and wave To see a face so white with woe, So ghastly, hollow, white as though It had that moment left the grave.
Her sweet face at that ghostly sign, Her fair face in her weight of hair, Is like a white dove drowning there,-- A white dove drowned in Tuscan wine.
He tries to stand, to stand erect.
"Tis gold, "tis gold that holds him down!
And soul and body both must drown,-- Two millstones tied about his neck.
Now once again his piteous face Is raised to her face reaching there.
He prays such piteous, silent prayer As prays a dying man for grace.
It is not good to see him strain To lift his hands, to gasp, to try To speak. His parched lips are so dry Their sight is as a living pain.
I think that rich man down in h.e.l.l Some like this old man with his gold,-- To gasp and gasp perpetual Like to this minute I have told.
XV.
At last the miser cries his pain,-- A shrill, wild cry, as if a grave Just ope"d its stony lips and gave One sentence forth, then closed again.
""Twas twenty years last night, last night!"
His lips still moved, but not to speak; His outstretched hands so trembling weak Were beggar"s hands in sorry plight.
His face upturned to hers, his lips Kept talking on, but gave no sound; His feet were cloven to the ground; Like iron hooks his finger-tips.