Gratitude.

There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far         To say in written words than when we sit         Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit.     Not that there is between us any bar         Of shyness or reserve; the day is past         For that, and utter trust has come at last.     Only, when shut alone and safe inside         These four white walls, - hearing no sound except         Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept     Stealthily round us, - as the incoming tide         Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on         Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.     Or out on the green hillside, even there         There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.         For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill     With wondrous echoes all the waiting air.         We listen, and in listening must forget     Our own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;     Even our joys, - thou knowest; - when the air         Is full to overflowing with the sense         Of hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence.     There is no place for words; we do not dare         To break Love's stillness, even though the power         Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.     But here in quietness I can recall         All I would tell thee, how thou art to me         Impulse and inspiration, and with thee     I can but smile though all my idols fall.         I wait my meed as others who have known         Patience till to their utmost stature grown.     As when the heavens are draped in gloomy gray         And earth is tremulous with a vague unrest         A glory fills the tender, troubled West     That glads the closing of November's day,         So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded sky         When day is over and I know thee nigh.     Thou art so much, all this and more, to me,         And what am I to thee? Can I repay         These many gifts? Is there no royal way     Of recompense, so I may proudly see         The man my heart delights to praise renowned         For wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?     Ah! though there is no recompense in love         Yet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee,         Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me,     Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall prove         No worship of thee by my soul confessed?         And riches? Ah! a wealth of love is best.