Thy mirth is like the flickering ray Forthshooting from the steadfast light Of a star, which through the night Moves glorious on its way, With a sense of moveless might. Thine inner soul flows calm forever; Dark and calm without a sound, Like that strange and trackless river That rolls its waters underground. Early and late at thy soul’s gate Sits Chastity in maiden wise, No thought unchallenged, small or great, Goes thence into thine eyes; Nought evil can that warder win, To pass without or enter in. Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink, Meanness doth blush and hide its head, Down through the soul their light will sink, And cannot be extinguished. Far up on poiséd wing Thou floatest, far from all debate, Thine inspirations are too great To tarry questioning; No murmurs of our earthly air, God’s voice alone can reach thee there; Downlooking on the stream of Fate, So high thou sweepest in thy flight, Thou knowest not of pride or hate, But gazing from thy lark-like height, Forth o’er the waters of To be, The first gleam of Truth’s morning light Round thy broad forehead floweth bright, My Pallas-like Callirhöe.
Thy mouth is Wisdom’s gate, wherefrom, As from the Delphic cave, Great sayings constantly do come, Wave melting into wave; Rich as the shower of Danäe, Rains down thy golden speech; My soul sits waiting silently, When eye or tongue sends thought to me, To comfort or to teach.
Calm is thy being as a lake Nestled within a quiet hill, When clouds are not, and winds are still, So peaceful calm, that it doth take All images upon its breast, Yet change not in its queenly rest, Reflecting back the bended skies Till you half doubt where Heaven lies. Deep thy nature is, and still, How dark and deep! and yet so clear Its inmost depths seem near; Not moulding all things to its will, Moulding its will to all, Ruling them with unfelt thrall. So gently flows thy life along It makes e’en discord musical, So that nought can pass thee by But turns to wond’rous melody, Like a full, clear, ringing song. Sweet the music of its flow, As of a river in a dream, A river in a sunny land, A deep and solemn stream Moving over silver sand, Majestical and slow.
I sometimes think that thou wert given To be a bright interpreter Of the pure mysteries of Heaven, And cannot bear To think Death’s icy hand should stir One ringlet of thy hair; But thou must die like us,— Yet not like us,—for can it be That one so bright and glorious Should sink into the dust as we, Who could but wonder at thy purity? Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine, My earnest-souled Callirhöe; And yet thy life is part of mine. What should I love in place of thee? Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams To me, or as a living sound To one who starts from fev’rous sleep, Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams, And on the darkness stareth round, Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep. Then if it must be so, That thou from us shalt go, Linger yet a little while; Oh! let me once more feel thy grace, Oh! let me once more drink thy smile! I am as nothing if thy face Is turned from me! But if it needs must be, That I must part from thee, That the silver cord be riven That holds thee down from Heaven, Not yet, not yet, Callirhöe, Unfold thine angel wings to flee, Oh! no, not yet, Callirhöe!