Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/77

  And Donnatello feebly answers him; Before I die, my master, quickly speak! You said one thing alone, my statue lacks. What is this need? What is the fault you saw?”

The master speaks: “All that it lacks is speech.”

Then Donnatello cries with reborn joy, His eyes once more are lit with happiness. He whispers faintly: “Happily I die.” And painlessly sinks to eternal dreams Like a bird who falls asleep, fatigued with song, When the sun has set beyond the mountain top.

A wanderer paused upon his weary way And in fatigue, leaned on a heavy cane. His eyes roamed slowly across the rolling plain, He heaved a burdened sigh and softly spoke:

“You old white house, hid in the garden’s shade So far away beyond the mountain’s range, The swallows are returning from the South And looking for their old, deserted nests Along your coping, and you will welcome them. But I will never more return to you. I’ll never cross the doorstep dear to me Where she, who bore me and gave me my life, Paused every evening for a little while To see the stars shine through the branches of the trees. To Her, who died, the Stars are now the steps Beyond which rest the mysteries of God, And where the eyes of those who passed beyond Fill with strange luster. But their shadows still Fall darkly upon the hearts of those Who yet must wait for death upon the dreary earth.

You old white house, hid in the garden’s shade, Tell me if souls of lifeless things are similar To our souls, that never can be taught How to forget their sorrows and their ills. You old white house, hid in the garden’s shade, Tell me if you are grieved when strangers’ steps