A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Night (Delphine de Girardin)
This is the hour. The veil is rent
That hides my sorrows in the day;
Opens my heart. Night-flowers their scent
Thus open at the first star's ray.
O Night, Night lovely and profound!
Thou know'st if worthy be of faith,
The judgments rash with which men hound
A stricken hind that bleeds to death.
Thou know'st the secret of my life!
The courage gay to do and dare,
The seeming calmness hides no strife—
'Tis an acceptance of despair!
For thee, I am myself again,
No more hypocrisy or guile!
I live, I love, I suffer pain,
My sadness wears not e'en a smile.
No more the rose and lily crown!
My brow resumes its mourning wreath;
Weary my throbbing head hangs down,
Tumbles the pride assumed, beneath.
My tears—long time, too long, held back—
Force through my fingers and intrude,
Like fountains that create a track
Through the dead branches in a wood.
After a day of hard constraint,
Of folly and of vanity,
To languish without any feint
Seems sweet to my humanity.
Oh! There's a bitter joy alway
In liberty to bear our pangs,
And yield ourselves a willing prey
To sorrow's torturing deathful fangs.
A bitter joy, to drain the spring
Of tears unto the lowest drop,
Vanquished,—from fierce despair to wring
Its last word or its final sob.
For then, oh then, the glutted grief
Leaves a vague rest to hearts it shook,
From life no more we seek relief,
But to the Ideal only look.
We wheel in space, we float, we swim,
By Evening's Spirit rendered free,
We change to fleeting shadows dim
That hover in immensity.
From death delivers and from shame
This freedom with resistless force;
We bear on earth no more a name,
We dream all dreams without remorse.
Nothing of this deceiving earth,
Nor bonds, nor laws, nor griefs remain;
The soul receives a second birth
And feels no more Imposture's pain.
Like a celestial butterfly,
Its own flower it can blameless choose,
It reasserts its nature high,
And shakes off exile's slime and ooze.
O Night—the sombre and the bright!
In thee I find all, all in sooth,
For thou unitest gloom with light,
And weddest Mystery with Truth.
But peace! The cold winds whistle clear,
The east reveals a streak of grey,
Adieu—adieu, O thoughts sincere,
And welcome lies. Here comes the day!