Читать книгу Verses - Coolidge Susan - Страница 3

  What can I do for thee, Beloved,

    Whose feet so little while ago

    Trod the same way-side dust with mine,

  And now up paths I do not know

    Speed, without sound or sign?

  What can I do? The perfect life

    All fresh and fair and beautiful

    Has opened its wide arms to thee;

  Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;

    Nothing remains for me.

  I used to do so many things,—

    Love thee and chide thee and caress;

    Brush little straws from off thy way,

  Tempering with my poor tenderness

    The heat of thy short day.

  Not much, but very sweet to give;

    And it is grief of griefs to bear

    That all these ministries are o'er,

  And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere,

    Never can need me more:—

  And I can do for thee but this

    (Working on blindly, knowing not

    If I may give thee pleasure so):

  Out of my own dull, burdened lot

    I can arise, and go

  To sadder lives and darker homes,

    A messenger, dear heart, from thee

    Who wast on earth a comforter,

  And say to those who welcome me,

    I am sent forth by her.

  Feeling the while how good it is

    To do thy errands thus, and think

    It may be, in the blue, far space,

  Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,—

    A smile upon my face.

  And when the day's work ends with day,

    And star-eyed evening, stealing in,

    Waves a cool hand to flying noon,

  And restless, surging thoughts begin,

    Like sad bells out of tune,

  I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great love

    Nor bound nor limit line is set,

    Give to my darling, I implore,

  Some new sweet joy not tasted yet,

    For I can give no more."

  And with the words my thoughts shall climb

    With following feet the heavenly stair

    Up which thy steps so lately sped,

  And, seeing thee so happy there,

    Come back half comforted.