Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Poems. IV. The Little Fair SoulMenella Bute Smedley (18201877)
A
Looked over the edge of Paradise,
And saw one striving to come in
With fear and tumult in his eyes.
“Your face is like a breath from home;
Why do you stay so long outside?
I am athirst for you to come!
And has she wept too much for me?”
“White are her cheeks and white her hairs,
But not from gentle tears for thee.”
“Alas, I left them weary and wan.”
“And tell me, is the baby grown?”
“Alas, he is almost a man.
And let the light of death come through,
Ere his feet stumble in the maze
Crossed safely by so few, so few?
That darkens till you find no shore,
So was the face of life to me,
Until I sank for evermore;
My days went by, a treacherous train,
Each smiling as he struck his blow,
Until I lay among them, slain.”
“There might be, but I never sought.”
“Oh, brother, there was a sword so near!”
“There might be, but I never fought.”
For you are come to the gate at last!”
Then in despair that soul replied,
“The gate is fast, the gate is fast!”
I cannot find this golden key,
But hosts of heaven around us wait,
And none has ever said ‘No’ to me.
And come undo the door for me!”
“Rest thee still, thou little fair soul,
It is not mine to keep the key.”
The air without is dark and cold.”
“Rest thee still, thou little pure heart,
Not for my word will they unfold.”
For that poor Shadow in the cold!
Still came the word, “Not ours to aid;
We cannot make the doors unfold.”
Wrung all the sacred air with pain,
And all the souls went up and cried
Where never cry was heard in vain.
The answer none might understand,
But dimly through the silent space
Was seen the stretching of a Hand.