Poems (Van Rensselaer)/My House
IN MEMORIAM
MY HOUSE(R. W. G., November, 1909.)
Here in this house I raised anewThe pillars of my home, and round their baseThat cincture of the spirit drewWhich sayeth, "This shall be my own, my placeOf safety, quietness, and ease,Wherein, at peace,My soul shall make its questFor the soul's good and the heart's best."
Old was the house, yet new to me and mine—our waysLed not unto its gate in other days;Only an empty spaciousness awaited me,Unwarmed, untapestried, of wont or memory.But friendly stores I broughtOf things inanimate that takeWith lengthened habitude a semblant life, and makeChambers of use and charm from alien vacancy; And feet there lacked not that in friendship soughtMy threshold, nor loved eyes and voices to desireThe happy voice and radiance of my fire.
And here I lived content. Yet when I sat alone,Or trod the twilit stair, or from my bedWatched how the winter dawning shone,Something I missed that I had knownOf blessedness beneath another roof:It seemed they held sometimes aloof,The dear, accustomed, necessary dead,Who walk, half-felt, beside our daily steps and keep,Almost perceived and almost audible,Such vigil by our pillow that we stay from sleepLest dreaming dreams be not so fullOf dreamèd tenderness.My heart-beats knew them still, my inward ear still heardThe low nocturnal word,And, through the daytime sound and stress,The faint companionable tread;But not so oft, ah, not so oft or clearly wellAs in those walls where we had used to dwell;For the beloved and loving dead(Or so say our immeasurable desires)Seeking the souls they need On dim and wavering paths, find oftenest those that leadTo the known roof-tree, the old lights and fires.
In this my house surely there did befall,A-many times ere it was mine, the ecstasiesOf sacred joys and agonies,Bridal and birth and burial;And gentle spirits of that time must come and go—Yet not for me, yet not for me to know!Strangers, they seek their own; nor could they guide to meMy own from paradise's far immensity.But, friend who chose, unwittingly,This house to be thy last, thy visible last,Abode, and from its harboring passedTo the invisible haven of the after-death,Dear friend, thy coming and thy faring-forthHave warmed, have vivified, these mute indifferent walls,Filling them with the passionate breathOf heart to yearning heart that calls,With deep vitalities of love and pain.—Is it for this alone they come again,My best-beloved, to pillow and to hearthAs they were wont to come,Frequent and close as to their long-familiar home? Or has thy far-flown spirit givenNew sign of the old amity from the paths of heaven?Does the affection that so long a whileEndured between my deadAnd thee and me illume, as with thy voice and smile,The far mysterious trackTheir homing feet must tread?They know, thou knowest, the incommunicable way.I know, I only know, that in this dayOf grief I yet am glad, for thou hast led them back.
And where we sat together, by my fire,For thy last hoursOf heard and answered converse, heart's desireShall find thee too when evening growsTo deep tranquillity, and vesper flowers—Remembrance, love, and gratitude—unclose.