⁠"I thought I knew it!" she said;
⁠⁠"I thought I had learnt it quite!"
But the gentle teacher shook her head,
⁠⁠With a grave, yet loving light
In the eyes that fell on the upturned face,
⁠⁠As she gave the book
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

⁠"I thought I knew it!" she said;
⁠⁠And a heavy tear fell down
As she turned away with bending head;
⁠⁠Yet not for reproof or frown,
And not for the lesson to learn again,
⁠⁠Or the play-hour lost;
It was something else that gave the pain.

⁠She could not have put it in words,
⁠⁠But her teacher understood,
As God understands the chirp of the birds
⁠⁠In the depth of an autumn wood;
And a quiet touch on the reddening cheek
⁠⁠Was quite enough;
No need to question, no need to speak.

⁠Then the gentle voice was heard,
⁠⁠"Now I will try you again,"
And the lesson was mastered, every word;
⁠⁠Was it not worth the pain?
Was it not kinder the task to turn
⁠⁠Than to let it pass
As a lost, lost leaf that she did not learn?

⁠Is it not often so,
⁠⁠That we only learn in part,
And the Master's testing-time may show
⁠⁠That it was not quite "by heart?"
Then he gives, in his wise and patient grace
⁠⁠The lesson again,
With the mark still set in the self-same place.

⁠Only stay by his side
⁠⁠Till the page is really known;
It may be we failed because we tried
⁠⁠To learn it all alone.
And now that he would not let us lose
⁠⁠One lesson of love
(For he knows the loss), can we refuse?

⁠But oh! how could we dream
⁠⁠That we knew it all so well,
Reading so fluently, as we deem,
⁠⁠What we could not even spell?
And oh! how could we grieve once more
⁠⁠That patient One
Who has turned so many a task before!

⁠That waiting One, who now
⁠⁠Is letting us try again;
Watching us with the patient brow
⁠⁠That bore the wreath of pain;
Thoroughly teaching what he would teach
⁠⁠Line upon line,
Thoroughly doing his work in each.

⁠Then let our hearts be still,
⁠⁠Though our task be turned to-day.
Oh! let him teach us what he will,
⁠In his own most gracious way,
Till, sitting only at Jesu's feet,
⁠As we learn each line,
The hardest is found all clear and sweet.

Blue sky, white cloud, sweet depth of southern air,
⁠What shaded, pansy-sprinkled grove is this?
⁠What lovers trembling on the verge of bliss,
She passion-warm, — he pale and drooping with despair?

Her throbbing brows, with yellow hair upbound,
⁠She leans upon her sister's cooler breast;
⁠There soothes her soft cheek, flush'd with sweet unrest,
And from her parted lips breaths fragrance all around.

With him 'tis ebb-tide of the golden flood;
⁠His hand rests idly on the cittern-wires,
⁠And as the beating of his heart inspires,
He strikes sad chords, and sings in melancholy mood,

Bowing his face, — "Dear love, this heart forlorn,
⁠A crazèd tenement on a river's brink,
⁠Haunted by shapes of care, save, ere it sink,
And be in death's chill waters whelm'd and overborne."

Fair lady seated with the enthrallèd twain,
⁠Thy beaming eyes with no wild passion glow.
⁠No touch of the sweet sorrow clouds thy brow;
Smiling, thou feel'st her joy, and smiling see'st his pain.

Then rise, nor longer the fond lovers sever;
⁠Bid her to fill his heart, give passion sway,
⁠And flush his cheek with kisses. Ah, no, stay,
Nor break the spell that holds the poet's dream forever!