en:
Make him know the thing you mean.
He has prayed since time began,--
He's so curious of the Plan!
He will pray you till he die,
For the Whence and for the Why;
Mad for wisdom--when 'tis cheaper!
'_Why should my way lead me deeper?
Am I, then, my Brother's keeper?_'

Show him, Byway, if you can;
Lest he end as he began,
Rich and poor,--this beggar, Man.

_But we did walk in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God;--
There, where no beckoning wonder
Of all the paths we trod,
No choiring sun-filled vineyard,
No voice of stream or bird,
But was some radiant oracle
And flaming with the Word!_

_Mine ears are dim with voices;
Mine eyes yet strive to see
The black things here to wonder at,
The mirth,--the misery.
Beloved, who wert with me there,
How came these shames to be?--
On what lost star are we?_

_Men say: The paths of gladness
By men were never trod!--
But we have walked in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God._

THE FOUNDLING

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
And I am wearied. And the day is done.
Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows--fading, gold to gray,
Their laughters turned to musing--ah, let me
Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
Along the meadows and the paling foam,
All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
The silence of the earth; and from the warm
Face of the field the upward savors swarm
Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
Mad-mane and gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,--
O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
With human-aching heart, as I a star--
Tempest of plumed joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love
More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.
So beautiful to see,
Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above
Scorch me with farness--lights that call and call
To the far heart, and answer not at all;
Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these
Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark
The after-glow go dark?
This hour to sing--but never have--heart's-ease!
That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon
Outside our happy windows their old ru