BY THE COUNSEL OF HER HANDS

With her clear eyes lifted,

Dreaming, lighting, swift and quelling

On all darkness drifted

From this earth, a vacant dwelling,—

With her haste flashing, flowing

Bright above all fear or scorning,—

I have seen my darling going

Up the mountains of the morning!

Oh, like harps wrung thrilling,

Like those viols that voice their answer

To the wild still willing

Of the heavens’ necromancer,

From the flowers around her rises

Music — gold, more gold in glory —

First of all those pure surprises

At the ending of the story.

Through the trees she passes

Where the purple spreads in shadow,

Through the dew-bright grasses

Of that heaven-quiet meadow,

Up the way of climbing vines,

Never faltering, never failing,

Where the blue of heaven shines

Through the sun for only veiling.

Flowers and leaves together sing

Like those birds in clouds that choir.

Aching-sweet from silver string,

Purling flute and golden wire

Music flows no mortal knows

Even in April thronged with voices.

Deeper glory throbs and glows

Till the trembling air rejoices.

Sweet and deep, sweet and deep

In the heart dark and aching,

Glamorous waves across my sleep

Is that tide of splendor breaking.

Pure and high, pure and high,

Shaking every star to chiming,

Till the wonder-stricken sky

Thrills and trembles to the rhyming!

Seraphim and cherubim

On their wings’ immaculate wonder

Rise in whirlwinds from the dim,

Pass through voids of rolling thunder,

Mount from lightning into light,

One great surge of praise awaking,

White and white into the height —

And the music trembling — breaking —!

But above the wood of fear,

On one white road forever,

From the darkness mounts my dear

In her still and bright endeavor,

With her kind brave eyes,

Honest hands and heart of healing,—

Lips that rapturously surmise —

Little smiles upon them stealing.

For — a violet twilight now

Spreads — as arms had cast a shadow

And the Godhead stooped to bow

Over phantom hill and meadow!

And — again — a field

Floats before her — as her choice is —

Where her heaven is revealed

In those small and rippling voices.

Elfin flowers invoked alive,

Fairy clouds from hives of honey

Like no angry human hive,

Billows of brightness swift and sunny,

Pattering, chuckling, panting haste,

Rosy-shy — though never sweeter

Than the three her arms embraced —

Heaven's children flock to meet her!

There are harps in Heaven

That must fail against that splendor;

And the Sacred Seven

Bow their heads in mute surrender.

Holy Mother of God, tonight

Bend your star-bright eyes and brimming

On the sweetness of that sight

In that meadow, dusk and dimming!

For, with hands in grasp so small

Of the tumbling ones that follow,—

With her smile upon them all,

Up the hill and through the hollow,—

With that rich voice crooning, waking

Sparkling gusts of joy and laughter,—

Climbs the Light of my forsaking,

Mounts the Hope of my hereafter!

Harshest song, bow down!

Mutinous words!— to make immortal

How the heavens in starlight drown

As she enters in the Portal,

How the Heavenly City glows,

How the bells cry, “We have found her!”

As through tears and praise she goes

With the children crowding round her!