Mirage

Here hangs at last, you see, my row Of sketches,— all I have to show Of one enchanted summer spent In sweet laborious content,

At little‘ Sconset by the moors, With the sea thundering by its doors, Its grassy streets, and gardens gay With hollyhocks and salvia.

And here upon the easel yet, With the last brush of paint still wet, ( Showing how inspiration toils ), Is one where the white surf-line boils

Along the sand, and the whole sea Lifts to the skyline, just to be The wondrous background from whose verge Of blue on blue there should emerge

This miracle. One day of days I strolled the silent path that strays Between the moorlands and the beach

From Siasconset, till you reach Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land That fronts the ocean, lone and grand As when the Lord first bade it be

For a surprise and mystery. A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, The level lonely moors, and I The only soul in all that vast

Of color made intense to last! The small white sea-birds piping near; The great soft moor-winds; and the dear Bright sun that pales each crest to jade,

Where gulls glint fishing unafraid. Here man, the godlike, might have gone With his deep thought, on that wild dawn When the first sun came from the sea,

Glowing and kindling the world to be, While time began and joy had birth,— No wilder sweeter spot on earth! As I sat there and mused ( the way

We painters waste our time, you say! ) On the sheer loneliness and strength Whence life must spring, there came at length Conviction of the helplessness

Of earth alone to ban or bless. I saw the huge unhuman sea; I heard the drear monotony Of the waves beating on the shore

With heedless, futile strife and roar, Without a meaning or an aim. And then a revelation came, In subtle, sudden, lovely guise,

Like one of those soft mysteries Of Indian jugglers, who evoke A flower for you out of smoke. I knew sheer beauty without soul

Could never be perfection's goal, Nor satisfy the seeking mind With all it longs for and must find One day. The lovely things that haunt

Our senses with an aching want, And move our souls, are like the fair Lost garments of a soul somewhere. Nature is naught, if not the veil

Of some great good that must prevail And break in joy, as woods of spring Break into song and blossoming. But what makes that great goodness start

Within ourselves? When leaps the heart With gladness, only then we know Why lovely Nature travails so,— Why art must persevere and pray

In her incomparable way. In all the world the only worth Is human happiness; its dearth The darkest ill. Let joyance be,

And there is God's sufficiency,— Such joy as only can abound Where the heart's comrade has been found. That was my thought. And then the sea

Broke in upon my revery With clamorous beauty,— the superb Eternal noun that takes no verb But love. The heaven of dove-like blue

Bent o'er the azure, round and true As magic sphere of crystal glass, Where faith sees plain the pageant pass Of things unseen. So I beheld

The sheer sky-arches domed and belled, As if the sea were the very floor Of heaven where walked the gods of yore In Plato's imagery, and I

Uplifted saw their pomps go by. The House of space and time grew tense As if with rapture's imminence, When truth should be at last made clear,

And the great worth of life appear; While I, a worshipper at the shrine, For very longing grew divine, Borne upward on earth's ecstasy,

And welcomed by the boundless sky. A mighty prescience seemed to brood Over that tenuous solitude Yearning for form, till it became

Vivid as dream and live as flame, Through magic art could never match, The vision I have tried to catch,— All earth's delight and meaning grown

A lyric presence loved and known. How otherwise could time evolve Young courage, or the high resolve, Or gladness to assuage and bless

The soul's austere great loneliness, Than by providing her somehow With sympathy of hand and brow, And bidding her at last go free,

Companioned through eternity? So there appeared before my eyes, In a beloved, familiar guise, A vivid, questing human face

In profile, scanning heaven for grace, Up-gazing there against the blue With eyes that heaven itself shone through; The lips soft-parted, half in prayer,

Half confident of kindness there; A brow like Plato's made for dream In some immortal Academe, And tender as a happy girl's;

A full dark head of clustered curls Round as an emperor's, where meet Repose and ardor, strong and sweet, Distilling from a mind unmarred

The glory of her rapt regard. So eager Mary might have stood, In love's adoring attitude, And looked into the angel's eyes

With faith and fearlessness, all wise In soul's unfaltering innocence, Sure in her woman's supersense Of things only the humble know.

My vision looks forever so. In other years when men shall say, “What was the painter's meaning, pray? Why all this vast of sea and space,

Just to enframe a woman's face?” Here is the pertinent reply, “What better use for earth and sky?” The great archangel passed that way

Illuming life with mystic ray. Not Lippo's self nor Raphael Had lovelier, realer things to tell Than I, beholding far away

How all the melting rose and gray Upon the purple sea-line leaned About that head that intervened. How real was she? Ah, my friend,

In art the fact and fancy blend Past telling. All the painter's task Is with the glory. Need we ask The tulips breaking through the mould

To their untarnished age of gold, Whence their ideals were derived That have so gloriously survived? Flowers and painters both must give

The hint they have received, to live,— Spend without stint the joy and power That lurk in each propitious hour,— Yet leave the why untold — God's way.

My sketch is all I have to say.