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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.