The Secret Way

Stark on the window’s early grey Lined out in squares by casement bars, She saw her lily lift to take The sinking stars.

Within the room’s delaying dark Intimate things lay dim and still With all their day-time friendliness Gone false and chill.

Her hand upon the coverlet, Her face low in the linen’s cleft, They were as wan as water-flowers By light bereft.

And never was bloom brought to her couch But shed the odour of a sigh Because she was as white as they, And they must die.

“O Pale, lit deep within the dark Of your young eyes, a stifled light Leaps thin and keen as melody And leavens night.

“It is a light that did not burn When you were gay at mart and fair; O Pale, what is that starry fire, Fed unaware?”

Then softly she: “I may not tell What other eyes behold in mine; But I have melted night and day In some wild wine.

“I may not read the graven cup Exhaustless as a brimming bell Distilling silver; but I drank And all is well.

“One morn like this, bitter still, I waited for the early stir Of those who slept the while I watched What muffled wonders were.

“I saw my lily on the sill; I saw my mirror on the wall Take light that was not; and I saw My spectral taper tall.

“Why I had known these quiet things Since I could speak. Yet suddenly They all touched hands and in one breath They spoke to me.

“I may not tell you what they said. The strange part is that I must lie And never tell you what we say---- These things and I.

“I only know that common things Bear sudden little spirits set Free by the rose of dawn and by Night’s violet.

“I only know that when I hear Clear tone, the haunted echoes bear Legions of little winged feet On printless air.

“And when warm colour weds my look A word is uttered tremblingly, With meaning fall--but I know not What it may be.

“I only know that now I find Abiding beauty everywhere; Or if it bide not, that it fades Is still more fair.

I long to question those I love And yet I know not what to say; I am alone as one upon Some secret way.

“My words are barren of my bliss; The strange part is that I must lie And never tell you what we say-- These things and I.

“So will it be when I am not. A little more perhaps to tell; Yet then as now I may not say What I know well.”

She died when all the east was red. And we are they who know her fate Because we love the way of life That she had found too late.