IV.

Something my brother said to me like this, But how unlike it also, think, I pray: His eyes were music, and his smile a kiss; Himself the word, his speech was but a ray In the clear nimbus that with verity Of absolute utterance made a home-born day Of truth about him, lamping solemnly; And when he paused, there came a swift repose, Too high, too still to be called ecstasy— A purple silence, lanced through in the close By such keen thought that, with a sudden smiling, It grew sheen silver, hearted with burning rose. He was a glory full of reconciling, Of faithfulness, of love with no self-stain, Of tenderness, and care, and brother-wiling Back to the bosom of a speechless gain.