VERA

A silent world,— yet full of vital joy Uttered in rhythmic movements manifold, And sunbeams flashing on the face of things Like sudden smilings of divine delight,—

A world of many sorrows too, revealed In fading flowers and withering leaves and dark Tear-laden clouds, and tearless, clinging mists That hung above the earth too sad to weep,—

A world of fluent change, and changeless flow, And infinite suggestion of new thought, Reflected in the crystal of the heart,— A world of many meanings but no words,

A silent world was Vera's home. For her The inner doors of sound were closely sealed The outer portals, delicate as shells

Suffused with faintest rose of far-off morn, Like underglow of daybreak in the sea,— The ear-gates of the garden of her soul, Shaded by drooping tendrils of brown hair,—

Waited in vain for messengers to pass, And thread the labyrinth with flying feet, And swiftly knock upon the inmost door, And enter in, and speak the mystic word.

But through those gates no message ever came. Only with eyes did she behold and see,— With eyes as luminous and bright and brown As waters of a woodland river,— eyes

That questioned so they almost seemed to speak, And answered so they almost seemed to hear,— Only with wondering eyes did she behold The silent splendour of a living world.

She saw the great wind ranging freely down Interminable archways of the wood, While tossing boughs and bending tree-tops hailed His coming: but no sea-toned voice of pines,

No roaring of the oaks, no silvery song Of poplars or of birches, followed him. He passed; they waved their arms and clapped their hands; There was no sound.

The torrents from the hills Leaped down their rocky pathways, like wild steeds Breaking the yoke and shaking manes of foam. The lowland brooks coiled smoothly through the fields,

And softly spread themselves in glistening lakes Whose ripples merrily danced among the reeds. The standing waves that ever keep their place In the swift rapids, curled upon themselves,

And seemed about to break and never broke; And all the wandering waves that fill the sea Came buffeting in along the stony shore, Or plunging in along the level sands,

Or creeping in along the winding creeks And inlets. Yet from all the ceaseless flow And turmoil of the restless element Came neither song of joy nor sob of grief;

For there were many waters, but no voice. Silent the actors all on Nature's stage Performed their parts before her watchful eyes, Coming and going, making war and love,

Working and playing, all without a sound. The oxen drew their load with swaying necks; The cows came sauntering home along the lane; The nodding sheep were led from field to fold

In mute obedience. Down the woodland track The hounds with panting sides and lolling tongues Pursued their flying prey in noiseless haste. The birds, the most alive of living things,

Mated, and built their nests, and reared their young, And swam the flood of air like tiny ships Rising and falling over unseen waves, And, gathering in great navies, bore away

To North or South, without a note of song. All these were Vera's playmates; and she loved To watch them, wondering oftentimes how well They knew their parts, and how the drama moved

So swiftly, smoothly on from scene to scene Without confusion. But she sometimes dreamed There must be something hidden in the play Unknown to her, an utterance of life

More clear than action and more deep than looks. And this she felt most deeply when she watched Her human comrades and the throngs of men, Who met and parted oft with moving lips

That had a meaning more than she could see. She saw a lover bend above a maid, With moving lips; and though he touched her not A sudden rose of joy bloomed in her face.

She saw a hater stand before his foe And move his lips; whereat the other shrank As if he had been smitten on the mouth. She saw the regiments of toiling men

Marshalled in ranks and led by moving lips. And once she saw a sight more strange than all: A crowd of people sitting charmed and still Around a little company of men

Who touched their hands in measured, rhythmic time To curious instruments; a woman stood Among them, with bright eyes and heaving breast, And lifted up her face and moved her lips.

Then Vera wondered at the idle play, But when she looked around, she saw the glow Of deep delight on every face, as if Some visitor from a celestial world

Had brought glad tidings. But to her alone No angel entered, for the choir of sound Was vacant in the temple of her soul, And worship lacked her golden crown of song.

So when by vision baffled and perplexed She saw that all the world could not be seen, And knew she could not know the whole of life Unless a hidden gate should be unsealed,

She felt imprisoned. In her heart there grew The bitter creeping plant of discontent, The plant that only grows in prison soil, Whose root is hunger and whose fruit is pain.

The springs of still delight and tranquil joy Were drained as dry as desert dust to feed That never-flowering vine, whose tendrils clung With strangling touch around the bloom of life

And made it wither. Vera could not rest Within the limits of her silent world; Along its dumb and desolate paths she roamed A captive, looking sadly for escape.

Now in those distant days, and in that land Remote, there lived a Master wonderful, Who knew the secret of all life, and could, With gentle touches and with potent words,

Open all gates that ever had been sealed, And loose all prisoners whom Fate had bound. Obscure he dwelt, not in the wilderness, But in a hut among the throngs of men,

Concealed by meekness and simplicity. And ever as he walked the city streets, Or sat in quietude beside the sea, Or trod the hillsides and the harvest fields,

The multitude passed by and knew him not. But there were some who knew, and turned to him For help; and unto all who asked, he gave. Thus Vera came, and found him in the field,

And knew him by the pity in his face. She knelt to him and held him by one hand, And laid the other hand upon her lips In mute entreaty. Then she lifted up

The coils of hair that hung about her neck, And bared the beauty of the gates of sound,— Those virgin gates through which no voice had passed,— She made them bare before the Master's sight,

And looked into the kindness of his face With eyes that spoke of all her prisoned pain, And told her great desire without a word. The Master waited long in silent thought,

As one reluctant to bestow a gift, Not for the sake of holding back the thing Entreated, but because he surely knew Of something better that he fain would give

If only she would ask it. Then he stooped To Vera, smiling, touched her ears and spoke: “Open, fair gates, and you, reluctant doors, Within the ivory labyrinth of the ear,

Let fall the bar of silence and unfold! Enter, you voices of all living things, Enter the garden sealed,— but softly, slowly, Not with a noise confused and broken tumult,—

Come in an order sweet as I command you, And bring the double gift of speech and hearing.” Vera began to hear. At first the wind Breathed a low prelude of the birth of sound,

As if an organ far away were touched By unseen fingers; then the little stream That hurried down the hillside, swept the harp Of music into merry, tinkling notes;

And then the lark that poised above her head On wings a-quiver, overflowed the air With showers of song; and one by one the tones Of all things living, in an order sweet,

Without confusion and with deepening power, Entered the garden sealed. And last of all The Master's voice, the human voice divine, Passed through the gates and called her by her name,

And Vera heard.