Poems (Jackson)/Two Comrades

by Helen Hunt Jackson

TWO COMRADES.

 

to O. W. and H. de K.

S when in some green forest's depth we findThe spot to which with idle, tinkling feet,Two brooks have danced all unawares to meetEach other, where at sight they interwind Their shining arms, and loving, trusting, bindThemselves for life, and with a louder song

And in a wider channel glide along;As when in some great symphony we trace,Through deep and underlying harmonies,How all the notes of melody uprise,Lifted by answering notes in distant place,Fulfilling each in each the final grace,But shielding, keeping each from each

The separate voices through the blended speech;So when we see two human souls by fateHeld in life's restless current side by side,And in their deepest nature so alliedThat each, but for the other, life's estateMust smaller find, a sense of joy, too greatAlmost for speech, thrills earnest souls who heed.Their fellowship and long to say "God-speed!"

Two comrades such as these I know,—young, fair;So fair, that choice cannot find right to choose;So fair, that wish can nothing miss or loseIn either face; so young, their eyes still wearThe looks with which young children trust and dare;So young, the womanhood of each warm heartAs yet finds love enough in love of Art.

One, silent,—with a silence whose quick speechBy subtler eloquence than any word,Reveals when deepest depths are touched and stirred,— Reveals by color tides which mount and reachHer broad, white brow, as on some magic beach,Where only spotless, peaceful snows resist,Might break a crimson sea through veiling mist.

Silent, with silence which might often makeDull ears believe the answer unexpressedMeant an assent, or acquiescent rest;Silence whose earnestness dull souls mistake;But silence out of which words leap and break,As from their sheaths swords leap and flash in sun,When comes the time for swords, and truce is done;

Silence which to all finer spirits isFull of such revelation and delightAs Nature's lovers find and feel in sightOf her most sacred, subtle silences;Silence of mountain lake, untouched by breeze;Silence of lily's heart, cool, white, and pure;Silence of crystal growths, patient and sure.

The other, earnest equally, but bornWith veins made for a tropic current's flow;Intolerant if fate seem cold, seem slow;Full of a noble, restless, dauntless scorn;Unjust to night, for eager love of morn;Unjust to small things for the love of great;Too faithless of all good which tarries late.

But yet through all this tropic current's heat,Through all this scorn of failures and delays, Lives faithfulness which never disobeysThe smallest law of patience, and, more sweetThan patience' self, works on to its completeFulfilling, wresting thus from alien powersA double guerdon for the conquered hours.

In vain among all rich and beauteous thingsWith which the realms of beauteous Nature teemsI look for one which fair and fitting seemsAs simile for her swift soul, which wingsItself more swift than bird can fly, which springsAnd soars like fountain, but finds no contentAt levels whence its own bright waters went.

Only one thing there is whose name is nameAlso for her: swift, restless, patient fire,Which, burning always, loses no desire;Which leaps and soars and blazes all the same,If spices or dull fagots feed its flame;Swift, restless, patient fire, which saves and turnsInto more precious things all things it burns.

O comrades, sweet to know and hear and see,Whom I have dared to paint, each empty phraseBut mocks my thought; no dreamy singer's praise,No flattering voice of hope and prophecyOf what the future years shall bring and be,No stranger's recognition do ye need!Ah! comrades, sweet to hear and see, "God-speed!"