Poems (Sill)/The Invisible
F there is naught but what we see,What is the wide world worth to me?But is there naught save what we see?A thousand things on every handMy sense is numb to understand:I know we eddy round the sun;When has it dizzied any one?I know the round worlds draw from far,Through hollow systems, star to star;But who has e'er upon a strandOf those great cables laid his hand?What reaches up from room to roomOf chambered earth, through glare or gloom,Through molten flood and fiery blast,And binds our hurrying feet so fast?'T is the earth-mother's love, that well Will hold the motes that round her dwell:Through granite hills you feel it stirAs lightly as through gossamer:Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes,Its grain no lens can analyze.
THE INVISIBLE.
F there is naught but what we see,What is the wide world worth to me?But is there naught save what we see?A thousand things on every handMy sense is numb to understand:I know we eddy round the sun;When has it dizzied any one?I know the round worlds draw from far,Through hollow systems, star to star;But who has e'er upon a strandOf those great cables laid his hand?What reaches up from room to roomOf chambered earth, through glare or gloom,Through molten flood and fiery blast,And binds our hurrying feet so fast?'T is the earth-mother's love, that well Will hold the motes that round her dwell:Through granite hills you feel it stirAs lightly as through gossamer:Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes,Its grain no lens can analyze. If there is naught but what we see,The friend I loved is lost to me:He fell asleep; who dares to sayHis spirit is so far away?Who knows what wings are round about?These thoughts—who proves but from withoutThey still are whispered? Who can thinkThey rise from morning's food and drink!These thoughts that stream on like the sea,And darkly beat incessantlyThe feet of some great hope, and break,And only broken glimmers make,Nor ever climb the shore, to lieAnd calmly mirror the far sky,And image forth in tranquil deepsThe secret that its silence keeps.
Because he never comes, and standsAnd stretches out to me both hands,Because he never leans beforeThe gate, when I set wide the doorAt morning, nor is ever foundJust at my side when I turn round,Half thinking I shall meet his eyes,From watching the broad moon-globe rise,—For all this, shall I homage payTo Death, grow cold of heart, and say:"He perished, and has ceased to be;Another comes, but never he"?Nay, by our wondrous being, nay!Although his face I never seeThrough all the infinite To Be,I know he lives and cares for me.