Des voluptés intérieures
Le sourire mystérieux.
VICTOR HUGO.
A COMMON folk I walk among;
I speak dull things in their own tongue:
But all the while within I hear
A song I do not sing for fear—
How sweet, how different a thing!
And when I come where none are near
I am made one with these indeed,
And give them all the love they need—
Such love as they would have of me:
But in my heart—ah, let it be!—
I think of it when none is nigh—
There is a love they shall not see;
For it I live—for it will die.
And oft-times, though I share their joys,
And seem to praise them with my voice,
Do I not celebrate my own,
Ay, down in some far inward zone
Of thoughts in which they have no part?
Do I not feel—ah, quite alone
With all the secret of my heart?
O when the shroud of night is spread
On these, as Death is on the dead,
So that no sight of them shall mar
The blessèd rapture of a star—
Then I draw forth those thoughts at will;
And like the stars those bright thoughts are;
And boundless seems the heart they fill:
For every one is as a link;
And I enchain them as I think;
Till present, and remembered bliss,
And better, worlds on after this,
I have—led on from each to each
Athwart the limitless abyss—
In some surpassing sphere I reach.
I draw a veil across my face
Before I come back to the place
And dull obscurity of these;
I hide my face, and no man sees;
I learn to smile a lighter smile,
And change, and look just what they please.
It is but for a little while.
I go with them; and in their sight
I would not scorn their little light,
Nor mock the things they hold divine;
But when I kneel before the shrine
Of some base deity of theirs,
I pray all inwardly to mine,
And send my soul up with my prayers:
For I—ah, to myself I say—
I have a heaven though far away;
And there my Love went long ago,
With all the things my heart loves so;
And there my songs fly, every one:
And I shall find them there I know