I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made
Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no
Peculiarity. The world to-day
Is disappointed if we are not odd,
And hold decided views on some one point,
Or else unsettled views on all. But she
Was living simply what she wished to live:
A lovely life of rounded womanhood;
With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear
To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite
Content was she to let the golden days
Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads
Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er
Each night with dull, mechanical routine;
But yet she had no central purpose; no
Absorbing aim to which all else must yield;
And so the very sweetness of her life,
Its exquisite simplicity and calm,
Musical in its silence, smote the ear
More sharply than the discords of the rest.
So do we grow accustomed far at sea
To jar and clang of harsh machinery,
And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths
Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly
The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep
Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all
That stirs the air, we waken with a start,
And ask in terror what has happened! Then
Sink back again upon the pillows; strange,
That silence should have wakened us!
Alas!
The world has grown so feverishly hot
With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams,
That lives which have the cool and temperate flow
Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem
Peculiar!