156
OLD LETTERS.
I.
I write to thee in cypher, even so
Doth not the heart write ever? being proud,
It careth not to boast its wealth, nor show
Where lie its precious things by speaking loud.
And here, upon my page an uncouth sign
Would say, "I love thee;" further down this mark
Shows plain, "for ever," yet the sense is dark
To every eye that looks on it but thine.
So is it even with my heart, thine ear
Can catch each broken whisper it hath used;
So even with my life; thou makest clear
Its meaning, oft-times to myself confused;
The souls that use one mother-tongue are free
To mould their rapid speech, but when from thee
I turn to others, straight I have to choose
My words, as one who in a foreign dress
Must clothe his thought, speaks slow in fear to err,
Interpreting himself;
Doth not the heart write ever? being proud,
It careth not to boast its wealth, nor show
Where lie its precious things by speaking loud.
And here, upon my page an uncouth sign
Would say, "I love thee;" further down this mark
Shows plain, "for ever," yet the sense is dark
To every eye that looks on it but thine.
So is it even with my heart, thine ear
Can catch each broken whisper it hath used;
So even with my life; thou makest clear
Its meaning, oft-times to myself confused;
The souls that use one mother-tongue are free
To mould their rapid speech, but when from thee
I turn to others, straight I have to choose
My words, as one who in a foreign dress
Must clothe his thought, speaks slow in fear to err,
Interpreting himself;
We do but guess
At one another darkly 'mid the stir
That thickens round us; in this life of ours
We are like players, knowing not the powers
Nor compass of the instruments we vex,
And by one rash, unskilful touch, perplex
At one another darkly 'mid the stir
That thickens round us; in this life of ours
We are like players, knowing not the powers
Nor compass of the instruments we vex,
And by one rash, unskilful touch, perplex
