LITMIR.BIZ

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sun was so hot. It was not winter, But some of the poor leaves were growing tired With hanging there so long. And some of them Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. I saw one falling—down, down—tumbling down— Just at the earth—when suddenly it spread Great wings and flew.—It was a butterfly, So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white—

      [Laughing heartily.]

      I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf.

       Away it flew! I don't know where it went.

       And so I thought, I have a story now

       To tell dear father when he comes to Lily.

      Julian. Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream. But I am tired—will you go find another— Another dream somewhere in sleep for me?

      Lily. O yes, I will.—Perhaps I cannot find one.

      [He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing.]

      Julian. What shall I do to give it life again? To make it spread its wings before it fall, And lie among the dead things of the earth?

      Lily. I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing The song about the little thirsty lily.

      [JULIAN sings.]

      SONG.

      Little white Lily

       Sat by a stone,

       Drooping and waiting

       Till the sun shone.

       Little white Lily

       Sunshine has fed;

       Little white Lily

       Is lifting her head.

      Little white Lily

       Said, "It is good:

       Little white Lily's

       Clothing and food!

       Little white Lily

       Drest like a bride!

       Shining with whiteness,

       And crowned beside!"

      Little white Lily

       Droopeth in pain,

       Waiting and waiting

       For the wet rain.

       Little white Lily

       Holdeth her cup;

       Rain is fast falling,

       And filling it up.

      Little white Lily

       Said, "Good again,

       When I am thirsty

       To have nice rain!

       Now I am stronger,

       Now I am cool;

       Heat cannot burn me,

       My veins are so full!"

      Little white Lily

       Smells very sweet:

       On her head sunshine,

       Rain at her feet.

       "Thanks to the sunshine!

       Thanks to the rain!

       Little white Lily

       Is happy again!"

      [He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her.]

      Julian. She is asleep, the darling! Easily Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. Gone home unto thy Father for the night!

      [He returns to his seat.]

      I have grown common to her. It is strange—

       This commonness—that, as a blight, eats up

       All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit.

      [Looking round.]

      This room is very common: everything

       Has such a well-known look of nothing in it;

       And yet when first I called it hers and mine,

       There was a mystery inexhaustible

       About each trifle on the chimney-shelf:

       The gilding now is nearly all worn off.

       Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world,

       Seems less mysterious and worshipful:

       No wonder I am common in her eyes.

       Alas! what must I think? Is this the true?

       Was that the false that was so beautiful?

       Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round?

       Or was love to the eyes as opium,

       Making all things more beauteous than they were?

       And can that opium do more than God

       To waken beauty in a human brain?

       Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth—

       A skeleton admitted as a guest

       At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask?

       No, no; my heart would die if I believed it.

       A blighting fog uprises with the days,

       False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about

       The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever

       Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out:

       On past and future pours the light of heaven.

       The Commonplace is of the present mind.

       The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful

       Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms

       The great child-heart has withered, backward look

       To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly,

       A mere delusion to which youth is subject,

       As childhood to diseases. They know better!

       And proud of their denying, tell the youth,

       On whom the wonder of his being shines,

       That will be over with him by and by:

       "I was so when a boy—look at me now!"

       Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love.

       So with all worship of the high and good,

       And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser!

       Their god, Experience, but their own decay;

       Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them.

       Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss,

       And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it,

       Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming.

       But he in whom the child's heart hath not died,

       But grown a man's heart, loveth yet the Past;

       Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours

       Will melt the mist; and that, although this day

       Cast but a dull stone on Time's heaped-up cairn,

       A morning light will break one morn and draw

       The hidden glories of a thousand hues

       Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots

       And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before.

       Far in the future lies his refuge. Time

       Is God's, and all its miracles are his;

       And in the Future he overtakes the Past,

       Which was a prophecy of times to come:

       There lie great flashing stars, the same that shone

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