Эдвард Роулэнд Силл (Edward Rowland Sill)

The Secret

A TIDE of sun and song in beauty broke
Against a bitter heart, where no voice woke
Till thus it spoke:—

What was it, in the old time that I know,
That made the world with inner beauty glow,
Now a vain show?

Still dance the shadows on the grass at play,
Still move the clouds like great, calm thoughts away,
Nor haste, nor stay.

But I have lost that breath within the gale,
That light to which the daylight was a veil,
The star-shine pale.

Still all the summer with its songs is filled,
But that delicious undertone they held—
Why is it stilled?

Then I took heart that I would find again
The voices that had long in silence lain,
Nor live in vain.

I stood at noonday in the hollow wind,
Listened at midnight, straining heart and mind
If I might find!

But all in vain I sought, at eve and morn,
On sunny seas, in dripping woods forlorn,
Till tired and worn,

One day I left my solitary tent
And down into the world's bright garden went,
On labor bent.

The dew stars and the buds about my feet
Began their old bright message to repeat,
In odors sweet;

And as I worked at weed and root in glee,
Now humming and now whistling cheerily,
It came to me,—

The secret of the glory that was fled
Shone like a sweep of sun all overhead,
And something said,—

"The blessing came because it was not sought;
There was no care if thou wert blest or not:
The beauty and the wonder all thy thought,—
Thyself forgot."

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