Song of the Mystic
I walk down the Valley of Silence—
Down the dim voiceless Valley—alone!
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me, save God’s and my own;
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown!
Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose magic my heart could not win;
Long ago was I weary of noises
That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places
Where I met but the human—and sin.
I walked through the world with the worldly;
I craved what the world never gave;
And I said: “In the world, each Ideal
That shines like a star on life’s wave,
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real,
And sleeps like a dream in a grave.”
And still did I pine for the Perfect,
And still found the false with the true;
I sought ’mid the human for heaven,
And caught a mere glimpse of its blue;
And I wept when the clouds of the mortal
Veiled even that glimpse from my view.
And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human;
And I moaned ’mid the mazes of men;
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar
And heard a voice call me. Since then
I walk down the Valley of Silence
That lies far beyond human ken.
Do you ask what I found in the Valley?
’Tis my trysting-place with the Divine;
And I fell at the feet of the Holy,
And above me a voice said: “Be mine!”
And there rose from the depths of my spirit
An echo—“My heart shall be thine.”
Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep—and I dream—and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayers, like a perfume from censers,
Ascendeth to God, night and day.
In the hush of the Valley of Silence,
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley,
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to men, like the Dove of the Deluge,
A message of Peace they may bring.
But far on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the Silence
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley
Too lofty for language to reach.
And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley—
Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the Valley, like virgins
Too pure for the touch of a word!
Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?
It lieth afar, between mountains,
And God and His angels are there;
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer.