To manifest, before his dreams depart, The tense, creative longing of his heart. So then I felt … but now as I return Within that delicate fellowship, I learn How much I changed by her I thought to change. Her rapt young beauty—what on earth more strange Than this awakening in fatherhood Of something so maternal, yes, so good!— It strained the waters of my old desire And turned to light love’s self-consuming fire.” “You did not feel that older self of you?” “Not as by thoughts but as by dreams I grew Conscious of deeper soul and wider scheme. …” “But never of that mother did you dream?” “Never to be aware—yet once almost She lived again, a momentary ghost Invisible against the luminous day— A presence and a sign that slipped away While, guessing at myself, I guessed at her. She stood about the daughter like a blur—” “About the daughter?” “Yes. It was the hour Of my leavetaking. Silent with the power Of words I could not speak, of words turned tears—” “The pang that strangles yet across the years!” “As well as I she knew the words unsaid—” “How should a daughter not, the day she wed?” “Then round about her drew that other one In whom I felt the mother, me the son … I thought it was a new bride’s hope confessed
To manifest, before his dreams depart, The tense, creative longing of his heart. So then I felt … but now as I return Within that delicate fellowship, I learn How much I changed by her I thought to change. Her rapt young beauty—what on earth more strange Than this awakening in fatherhood Of something so maternal, yes, so good!— It strained the waters of my old desire And turned to light love’s self-consuming fire.” “You did not feel that older self of you?” “Not as by thoughts but as by dreams I grew Conscious of deeper soul and wider scheme. …” “But never of that mother did you dream?” “Never to be aware—yet once almost She lived again, a momentary ghost Invisible against the luminous day— A presence and a sign that slipped away While, guessing at myself, I guessed at her. She stood about the daughter like a blur—” “About the daughter?” “Yes. It was the hour Of my leavetaking. Silent with the power Of words I could not speak, of words turned tears—” “The pang that strangles yet across the years!” “As well as I she knew the words unsaid—” “How should a daughter not, the day she wed?” “Then round about her drew that other one In whom I felt the mother, me the son … I thought it was a new bride’s hope confessed