A Stranger

I.
It is not surely, this, a little thing,
That day and night and every Sabbath day
Throughout these months of winterless glad Spring,
March mild as April, April sweet as May,
And May as rich as June in common years,
It has been given me upon my way,
Given to me and all my village peers,
But most to me as my full heart knows well,
Brimming my eyes with tender wistful tears
And throbbing with strange awe ineffable,
To meet and pass, to follow with slow pace,
Or on the street or in our quiet dell
Or through the fields, that Lady of all grace
With sweet sad eyes and noble mournful face.

II.
We know not who she is or whence she came,
She and her little boy with her own eyes
And brow and patient smile, whose Christian name

Without the surname tells us where he lies
With her heart buried in the selfsame grave :
The larks were singing in the soft blue skies,

And even some few violets were brave
To breathe faint sweetness on the bland warm air,
Good Valentine such benediction gave,

When she arrived with him, her anxious care,
Her only joy, her terrible dark grief :
In early April he was lying there ;

The Spring all blithe with bud and flower and leaf
And scent and song above his Spring so brief.

III.
Only the Christian name upon the stone
Above the date of birth and date of death ;
Two syllables of everlasting moan,

Immortal sorrow breathing mortal breath,
Continual weeping that would fain not weep,
Sad comforting that vainly comforteth

The deadly anguish graven far more deep
Upon the heart than on the marble cold
" For so He giveth His beloved sleep."

Yet with a lofty patience she controlled
The outward signs of anguish ; eve and morn
Tending that little bed of sacred mould

And others near it that were left forlorn ;
Praying, I think, to sleep herself outworn.

IV.
Her sorrow flowed with blessings from above ;
Her heart of joy and hope was in that tomb,
But not her heart of sympathy and love :

While her young flower was fading from its bloom
She had been wonderfully sweet and kind ;
And now that it was buried in the gloom

Her own sore suffering did but closelier bind
Her heart to other hearts in all distress ;
The little angel in her sad soul shrined

Was a true angel of pure gentleness
And soft compassion and unwearying will
To soothe and aid and with all solace bless :

Our joys and sorrows take our nature still ;
Hers wrought bright good from her own darkest ill.

V.
Tenderness, worship, bliss in yearning pain ! —
To see her young and fair and more than fair,
Amidst us yet not of us, sole remain

As sanctified already unaware ;
To see the peacefulness of pure white brow
Beneath the smoothness of the rich brown hair ;

The cloistral solitude without the vow ;
The self-renunciation mild and meek
With meekness that is ever glad to bow,

Evading honours such as others seek,
Yet in its stooping cannot help but rise ;
To hear that soft slow voice its good words speak ;

To feel the fascination of those eyes,
Solemn and dark and deep as midnight skies.

VI.
I did not wonder she could be so pure
Amidst our petty cares and sordid strife,
But how our common meanness could endure

Beneath the lofty radiance of her life ;
Until I saw how, fine and soft and clear
As starbeams quivering through the darkness rife,

Her effluence shone on souls all dull and drear :
Then as the Moon in moving through the Night
Bears round her ever her own hemisphere

Of tranquil beauty and entrancing light
By solemn shadows more mysterious made,
Her regnant beauty turned all darkness bright

Or glorified mysteriously its shade ;
Fair Queen most queenly as in Night arrayed.

VII.
Oh, joyless joy of this most bounteous June,
For with the Maytide She is gone, is gone !
All men adore and love the one sole Moon ;

But she of all on whom her light has shone,
Of all her pure and gracious light has blest,
Discerns no mortal save Endymion,

To him alone unveils her virgin breast,
On him alone outpours her love divine.
What shall we do who undistinguished rest ?

Shall we against her solemn choice repine ?
Or shall we rather lift our souls above
To hold her ever in a crystal shrine,

The perfect beauty of Heaven's brooding Dove,
The sacred vision of Heaven's reachless Love ?