Exile

Des voluptés intérieures Le sourire mystérieux. VICTOR HUGO.

A common folk I walk among; I speak dull things in their own tongue: But all the while within I hear A song I do not sing for fear— How sweet, how different a thing! And when I come where none are near I open all my heart and sing.

I am made one with these indeed, And give them all the love they need— Such love as they would have of me: But in my heart—ah, let it be!— I think of it when none is nigh— There is a love they shall not see; For it I live—for it will die.

And oft-times, though I share their joys, And seem to praise them with my voice, Do I not celebrate my own, Ay, down in some far inward zone Of thoughts in which they have no part? Do I not feel—ah, quite alone With all the secret of my heart?

O when the shroud of night is spread On these, as Death is on the dead, So that no sight of them shall mar The blessèd rapture of a star— Then I draw forth those thoughts at will; And like the stars those bright thoughts are; And boundless seems the heart they fill:

For every one is as a link; And I enchain them as I think; Till present, and remembered bliss, And better, worlds on after this, I have—led on from each to each Athwart the limitless abyss— In some surpassing sphere I reach.

I draw a veil across my face Before I come back to the place And dull obscurity of these; I hide my face, and no man sees; I learn to smile a lighter smile, And change, and look just what they please. It is but for a little while.

I go with them; and in their sight I would not scorn their little light, Nor mock the things they hold divine; But when I kneel before the shrine Of some base deity of theirs, I pray all inwardly to mine, And send my soul up with my prayers:

For I—ah, to myself I say— I have a heaven though far away; And there my Love went long ago, With all the things my heart loves so; And there my songs fly, every one: And I shall find them there I know When this sad pilgrimage is done.