Two Faces

"Would I could see!" I heard one say but now, "The strongest woman and the tenderest man That ever God had dared put in the world!" And I, who did not speak, because one can Tell out one's sweetest secret to the sky Sometimes with greater ease than one can speak It at some others to a friend's close ear, Went up into the gallery of my soul Silent and smiling and assured, to see Some pictures that are hung there on the wall, Whereat my soul and I on leisure days Sit gazing and sit thirsting by ourselves. And one there is that looketh down to me Less like a face than like a star, for when With closed eyes I would think what it is like I only can remember that it shines. But when I turn again to con and learn Its lineaments like a lesson in my thought, The forehead has the look that marble has When it has drawn the sunlight to its heart. And if St. John had fought the Dragon, then He might have had perhaps such eyes as that (But still I do not tell you what the eyes Are like, nor can I, and I am not sure, Indeed, that I should tell you if I could). O, straight they look the world into the face! And never have they dropped before its gaze, And never sunk they down abashed, to hide A glance of which their own light was ashamed. And if an unclean thing had chanced to step Into the presence of such eyes, pierced, scorched, It would have shrunk before their stabs, but ere It could have risen to flee, it would have dropped, And cowered moaning in the dust, because It felt itself a thing they pitied so! And then the mouth!--I never saw a mouth, Another one, that seemed to think and feel At once like this. If haply lips like these Had found a word for which the whole round earth Were waiting, while they spoke the word, I think They 'd quiver most because upon that day The woman that they loved had touched them,--said, "Go speak, my lips, and make me proud!"--the most For that than for the worth of either work or world. And one there is (across the gallery's width This picture hangs), a graver face, and touched A little with a sadness such as that Which might have fallen on the countenance Of Esther in the story, when she left Her throne to perish for her people's sake; The sadness of a soul bound fast to bear-- Whether by fate or choice it knoweth not-- Within itself the sorrows of a race, A kind, to which it has no gladder tie Than the blind old mystery of kin; urged on By something in its nature like a cry That will be heard, come life, come death! to lay Aside the crown, the robe of royalty, And mediate, a suppliant, for its own. If she perish, she must perish!--but must go. Though she perish, let her perish!--let her go. Soft falls the hair about this other face, Leaving a shadow like a shadow thrown By leafless trees upon a snow-drift's brow, A slender shelter for the dazzling white. And out from it look steady eyes that hide Their perfect meaning from the casual gaze, And out from it there leans a flying smile, As one smiles turning slowly from the page In which his heart is left to hear The sweetest interruption in the world More languidly than lovingly. I think You 'd never pause to speculate or guess Which interruption were the dearer fret To her, but only what the lesson was O'er which she bent, and only wonder on If Esther had a smile like that; and if Her people, when they saw it, understood The half of it; and if the King will hold, As did Ahasuerus in the time Of old, his sceptre out, and ever call This unqueened Queen in triumph to her throne. And if there were on earth a tenderer strength? Or if there were a stronger tenderness? What matters it to me? for now behold! That gallery in my longing soul is full, And God himself came up and shut the door.