language and maintain its own
silence, but must learn the set phrases of the poet and idealize, sigh
and flirt instead of freely greeting, beholding and surrendering
itself, I would most gladly have confessed and said to her: "You know
me not," but I found that the words were not wholly true. Before I
left, I gave her a volume of Arnold's poems, which I had had a short
time, and begged her to read the one called "The Buried Life." It was
my confession, and then I kneeled at her couch and said "Good Night."
"Good Night," said she, and laid her hand upon my head, and again her
touch thrilled through, every limb and the dreams of childhood uprose
in my soul. I could not go, but gazed into her deep unfathomable eyes
until the peace of her soul completely overshadowed mine. Then I arose
and went home in silence--and in the night I dreamed of the silver
poplar around which the wind roared--but not a leaf stirred on its
branches.

THE BURIED LIFE.

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet
Behold, with tears my eyes are wet;
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest;
We know, we know that we can smile;
But there's a something in this breast
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And, let me read there, love, thy inmost soul.

Alas, is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved,
Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men and alien to themselves--and yet,
The same heart beats in every human breast.

But we, my love--does a like spell benumb
Our hearts--our voices?--must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can yet free
Our hearts and have our lips unchained;
For that which seals them hath been deep ordained.
Fate which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be,
By what distractions he would be possessed,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity,
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey,
Even in his own despi