What can it mean for me? What have I done to her?I, in our season of love as a sun to her:She, all its heaven of silvery, numberfulStars and its moon shining golden and slumberful;Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery,Gazed—and made beautiful; smiled—and made flowery.She, to my heart and my soul a divinity!She, who—I dreamed!—seemed my spirit's affinity!—What have I done to her? what have I done?What can she mean by this?—what have I said to her!I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her;Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her;Lived for her only; would gladly have died for her!See!—she has written me thus! she has written me....Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!—Would you had shriveled ere ever you'd read of it,Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it!—What have I said to her? what have I said?What shall I make of it? I who am trembling,Dreading to lose her.—A moth, the dissemblingFlame of the candle attracts with its guttering,Flattering on till its body lies fluttering,Scorched in the summer night.—Foolish, importunate,Why did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfortunate!—Such has she been to me making me such to her,Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!—What shall I make of it? what can I make?Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless,Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless.I,—with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,—Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasin,Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.—I,—in the sky with the egrets that, flying me,Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly,White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderlySang, making vistas of mosses melodious;—Wandered unheeding my steps in the odiousOoze and the venom. I followed the wiryViolet curve of thy star falling fiery—So was I lost in night! thus am undone!Have I not told to her—living alone for her—Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for herHere in the soil of my soul? their varietyEndless—and ever she answered with piety.See! it has come to this—all the tale's suavityAt the ninth chapter grows wretched to gravity;Cruel as death all our beautiful history—Close it!—the finis is more than a mystery.—Yes, I will go to her; yes, I will speak.
What can it mean for me? What have I done to her?I, in our season of love as a sun to her:She, all its heaven of silvery, numberfulStars and its moon shining golden and slumberful;Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery,Gazed—and made beautiful; smiled—and made flowery.She, to my heart and my soul a divinity!She, who—I dreamed!—seemed my spirit's affinity!—What have I done to her? what have I done?
What can she mean by this?—what have I said to her!I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her;Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her;Lived for her only; would gladly have died for her!See!—she has written me thus! she has written me....Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!—Would you had shriveled ere ever you'd read of it,Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it!—What have I said to her? what have I said?
What shall I make of it? I who am trembling,Dreading to lose her.—A moth, the dissemblingFlame of the candle attracts with its guttering,Flattering on till its body lies fluttering,Scorched in the summer night.—Foolish, importunate,Why did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfortunate!—Such has she been to me making me such to her,Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!—What shall I make of it? what can I make?
Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless,Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless.I,—with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,—Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasin,Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.—I,—in the sky with the egrets that, flying me,Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly,White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderlySang, making vistas of mosses melodious;—Wandered unheeding my steps in the odiousOoze and the venom. I followed the wiryViolet curve of thy star falling fiery—So was I lost in night! thus am undone!
Have I not told to her—living alone for her—Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for herHere in the soil of my soul? their varietyEndless—and ever she answered with piety.See! it has come to this—all the tale's suavityAt the ninth chapter grows wretched to gravity;Cruel as death all our beautiful history—Close it!—the finis is more than a mystery.—Yes, I will go to her; yes, I will speak.
I seem to see her still; to seeThat dim blue room. Her perfume comesFrom lavender folds draped dreamily—One blossom of brocaded blooms—Some stuff of orient looms.I seem to hear her speak; and backWhere lies the sun on books and pilesOf porcelain and bric-a-brac,A tall clock ticks above the tiles,Where Love's framed profile smiles.I hear her say, "Ah, had I known!—I suffer too for what has been—For what must be."—A wild ache shoneIn her sad eyes that seemed to leanOn something far, unseen.And as in sleep my own self seemsOutside my suffering self.—I flush'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,And wait as silent as that hushOf lilac light and plush.Smiling, but suffering, I feel,Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,In those pale temples, thoughts like steelPierce burningly.—I had gone madHad I once deemed her glad.—Unconsciously, with eyes that yearnTo look beyond the present farFor some faint future hope, I turn—Above her garden, day's fierce star,Vermilion at the window bar,Sank sullenly—like love's own sun—An omen of our future life.—And then the memory of oneRich day she'd said she'd be my wifeSet heart and brain at strife.Again amid the heavy hues,Soft crimson, seal, and satiny goldOf flowers there, I stood 'mid dewsWith her; deep in her garden old,While sunset fires uprolled.And now.... It can not be! and yetTo feel 'tis so!—In heart and brainTo know 'tis so!—while warm and wetI seem to smell those scents again,Verbena-scents and rain.I turn, in hope she'll bid me stay.Again her cameo beauty markSet in that smile.—She turns away.No word of love! not even a sparkOf hope to cheer the dark!That sepia sketch—conceive it so—A jaunty head with mouth and eyesTragic beneath a rose-chapeau,Silk-masked, unmasking—it deniesThe look we half surmise,We know is there. 'Tis thus we readThe true beneath the false; perceiveThe smile that hides the ache.—Indeed!Whose soul unmasks?... Not mine!—I grieve,—Oh God!—but laugh and leave....
I seem to see her still; to seeThat dim blue room. Her perfume comesFrom lavender folds draped dreamily—One blossom of brocaded blooms—Some stuff of orient looms.
I seem to hear her speak; and backWhere lies the sun on books and pilesOf porcelain and bric-a-brac,A tall clock ticks above the tiles,Where Love's framed profile smiles.
I hear her say, "Ah, had I known!—I suffer too for what has been—For what must be."—A wild ache shoneIn her sad eyes that seemed to leanOn something far, unseen.
And as in sleep my own self seemsOutside my suffering self.—I flush'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,And wait as silent as that hushOf lilac light and plush.
Smiling, but suffering, I feel,Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,In those pale temples, thoughts like steelPierce burningly.—I had gone madHad I once deemed her glad.—
Unconsciously, with eyes that yearnTo look beyond the present farFor some faint future hope, I turn—Above her garden, day's fierce star,Vermilion at the window bar,
Sank sullenly—like love's own sun—An omen of our future life.—And then the memory of oneRich day she'd said she'd be my wifeSet heart and brain at strife.
Again amid the heavy hues,Soft crimson, seal, and satiny goldOf flowers there, I stood 'mid dewsWith her; deep in her garden old,While sunset fires uprolled.
And now.... It can not be! and yetTo feel 'tis so!—In heart and brainTo know 'tis so!—while warm and wetI seem to smell those scents again,Verbena-scents and rain.
I turn, in hope she'll bid me stay.Again her cameo beauty markSet in that smile.—She turns away.No word of love! not even a sparkOf hope to cheer the dark!
That sepia sketch—conceive it so—A jaunty head with mouth and eyesTragic beneath a rose-chapeau,Silk-masked, unmasking—it deniesThe look we half surmise,
We know is there. 'Tis thus we readThe true beneath the false; perceiveThe smile that hides the ache.—Indeed!Whose soul unmasks?... Not mine!—I grieve,—Oh God!—but laugh and leave....
Beyond those twisted apple-trees,That partly hide the old brick-barn,Its tattered arms and tattered kneesA scare-crow tosses to the breezeAmong the shocks of corn.My heart is gray as is the day,In which the rain-wind drearilyMakes all the sounding branches sway,And in the hollows far awayThe dry leaves rustle wearily.And soon we'll hear the far wild-geeseHonk in frost-bitten heavens underArcturus; when my walks must cease,And by the fireside's log-heaped peaceI'll sit and nod and ponder.—When every fall of this loud creekIs architectured ice; and hintedBrown acres of yon corn stretch bleak,White-sculptured with the snows, that streakThe hillsides bitter-tinted,I'll sit and dream of that glad mornWe went down ways where blooms were blowing;That dusk we strolled through flower and thorn,By tasseled meads of cane and corn,To where the stream was flowing.Again I'll oar our boat amongThe lily-pads that dot the river;And reach her hat the grape-vine longStrikes in the stream; we'll sing that song,And then.... I'll wake and shiver.Why is it that my mind revertsTo that sweet past? while full of partingThe present is; so full of hurtsAnd heartache, that what it assertsAdds only to the smarting.How often shall I sit and thinkOf that sweet past! through lowered lashesWhat-might-have-been trace link by link;Then watch it gradually sinkAnd crumble into ashes.Outside I'll hear the sad wind weepLike some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken;Then shuddering to bed shall creepAnd lie awake, or haply sleepA sleep by visions shaken.Dreams of the past that paint and drawThe present in a hue that's wanting;A scare-crow thing of sticks and straw,—Like that just now I, passing, saw,—Its empty tatters flaunting.
Beyond those twisted apple-trees,That partly hide the old brick-barn,Its tattered arms and tattered kneesA scare-crow tosses to the breezeAmong the shocks of corn.
My heart is gray as is the day,In which the rain-wind drearilyMakes all the sounding branches sway,And in the hollows far awayThe dry leaves rustle wearily.
And soon we'll hear the far wild-geeseHonk in frost-bitten heavens underArcturus; when my walks must cease,And by the fireside's log-heaped peaceI'll sit and nod and ponder.—
When every fall of this loud creekIs architectured ice; and hintedBrown acres of yon corn stretch bleak,White-sculptured with the snows, that streakThe hillsides bitter-tinted,
I'll sit and dream of that glad mornWe went down ways where blooms were blowing;That dusk we strolled through flower and thorn,By tasseled meads of cane and corn,To where the stream was flowing.
Again I'll oar our boat amongThe lily-pads that dot the river;And reach her hat the grape-vine longStrikes in the stream; we'll sing that song,And then.... I'll wake and shiver.
Why is it that my mind revertsTo that sweet past? while full of partingThe present is; so full of hurtsAnd heartache, that what it assertsAdds only to the smarting.
How often shall I sit and thinkOf that sweet past! through lowered lashesWhat-might-have-been trace link by link;Then watch it gradually sinkAnd crumble into ashes.
Outside I'll hear the sad wind weepLike some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken;Then shuddering to bed shall creepAnd lie awake, or haply sleepA sleep by visions shaken.
Dreams of the past that paint and drawThe present in a hue that's wanting;A scare-crow thing of sticks and straw,—Like that just now I, passing, saw,—Its empty tatters flaunting.
The sun a splintered splendor wasIn trees, whose waving branches blurredIts disc, that day we went together,'Mid wild-bee hum and whirring buzzOf insects, through the fields that purredWith Summer in the perfect weather.So sweet it was to look and leanTo her young face and feel the lightOf eyes that met my own unsaddened!Her laugh, that left lips more serene;Her speech, that blossomed like the whiteLife-everlasting there and gladdened.Maturing Summer! you were fraughtWith more of beauty then than nowParades the pageant of September:Where what-is-now contrasts in thoughtWith what-was-once, that bloom and boughCan only help me to remember.
The sun a splintered splendor wasIn trees, whose waving branches blurredIts disc, that day we went together,'Mid wild-bee hum and whirring buzzOf insects, through the fields that purredWith Summer in the perfect weather.
So sweet it was to look and leanTo her young face and feel the lightOf eyes that met my own unsaddened!Her laugh, that left lips more serene;Her speech, that blossomed like the whiteLife-everlasting there and gladdened.
Maturing Summer! you were fraughtWith more of beauty then than nowParades the pageant of September:Where what-is-now contrasts in thoughtWith what-was-once, that bloom and boughCan only help me to remember.
Through iron-weeds and rosesAnd ancient beech and oak,Old porches it disclosesAbove the weeds and roses,The drizzling raindrops soak.Neglected walks a-tangleWith dodder-strangled grass;And every mildewed angleHeaped with dead leaves that spangleThe paths that round it pass.The creatures there that buryAnd hide within its rooms,And spidered closets—veryDim with gray webs—will hurryOut when the twilight glooms.Owls roost in room and basement;Bats haunt its hearth and porch,And through some paneless casementFlit, in the moon's enlacement,Or firefly's twinkling torch.There is a sense of frost here,And gusts that sigh away.—What was it that was lost here?Long, long ago was lost here?—Can anybody say?My foot perhaps would startleSome bird that mopes within;Some owl above its portal,That stares upon the mortalAs on a thing of sin.The rutty road winds by itThis side the dusty toll.—Why do I stop to eye it?My heart can not deny it—The house is like my soul.
Through iron-weeds and rosesAnd ancient beech and oak,Old porches it disclosesAbove the weeds and roses,The drizzling raindrops soak.
Neglected walks a-tangleWith dodder-strangled grass;And every mildewed angleHeaped with dead leaves that spangleThe paths that round it pass.
The creatures there that buryAnd hide within its rooms,And spidered closets—veryDim with gray webs—will hurryOut when the twilight glooms.
Owls roost in room and basement;Bats haunt its hearth and porch,And through some paneless casementFlit, in the moon's enlacement,Or firefly's twinkling torch.
There is a sense of frost here,And gusts that sigh away.—What was it that was lost here?Long, long ago was lost here?—Can anybody say?
My foot perhaps would startleSome bird that mopes within;Some owl above its portal,That stares upon the mortalAs on a thing of sin.
The rutty road winds by itThis side the dusty toll.—Why do I stop to eye it?My heart can not deny it—The house is like my soul.
I bear a burden—look not therein!Naught will you find but sorrow and sin;Sorrow and sin that wend with meWherever I go. And misery,A gaunt companion, a wretched bride,Goes always with me, side by side.Sick of myself and all the Earth,I ask my soul now—is life worthThe little pleasure that we gainFor all our sorrow and our pain?The love, to which we gave our best,That turns a mockery and a jest?
I bear a burden—look not therein!Naught will you find but sorrow and sin;Sorrow and sin that wend with meWherever I go. And misery,A gaunt companion, a wretched bride,Goes always with me, side by side.
Sick of myself and all the Earth,I ask my soul now—is life worthThe little pleasure that we gainFor all our sorrow and our pain?The love, to which we gave our best,That turns a mockery and a jest?
The things we love, the loveliest things we cherish,Pass from us soonest, vanish utterly.Dust are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perishEre we can saythey be!I have loved man and learned we are not brothers—Within myself, perhaps, may lie the cause;—Then set one woman high above all others,And found her full of flaws.Made unseen stars my keblahs of devotion;Aspired to knowledge and remained a clod:With heart and soul, led on by blind emotion,The way to failure trod.Chance, say, or fate that works through good and evil;Or destiny, that nothing may retard,That to some end, above life's empty level,Perhaps withholds reward.
The things we love, the loveliest things we cherish,Pass from us soonest, vanish utterly.Dust are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perishEre we can saythey be!
I have loved man and learned we are not brothers—Within myself, perhaps, may lie the cause;—Then set one woman high above all others,And found her full of flaws.
Made unseen stars my keblahs of devotion;Aspired to knowledge and remained a clod:With heart and soul, led on by blind emotion,The way to failure trod.
Chance, say, or fate that works through good and evil;Or destiny, that nothing may retard,That to some end, above life's empty level,Perhaps withholds reward.
They who die young are blest.—Should we not envy such?They are Earth's happiest,God-loved and favored much!—They who die young are blest.
They who die young are blest.—Should we not envy such?They are Earth's happiest,God-loved and favored much!—They who die young are blest.
They who die young are blest.—Should we not envy such?They are Earth's happiest,God-loved and favored much!—They who die young are blest.
'Though the dog-tooth violet comeWith April showers,And the wild-bees' music humAbout the flowers,We shall never wend as whenLove laughed leading us from menOver violet vale and glen,Where the bob-white piped for hours,And we heard the rain-crow's drum.Now November heavens are gray;Autumn killsEvery joy—like leaves of MayIn the rills.—Still I sit and lean and listenTo a voice that has arisenIn my heart—with eyes that glistenLooking at the happy hillsFading dark-blue far away.
'Though the dog-tooth violet comeWith April showers,And the wild-bees' music humAbout the flowers,We shall never wend as whenLove laughed leading us from menOver violet vale and glen,Where the bob-white piped for hours,And we heard the rain-crow's drum.
Now November heavens are gray;Autumn killsEvery joy—like leaves of MayIn the rills.—Still I sit and lean and listenTo a voice that has arisenIn my heart—with eyes that glistenLooking at the happy hillsFading dark-blue far away.
There rank death clutches at the flowersAnd drags them down and stamps in earth.At morn the thin, malignant hours,Shrill-mouthed among the windy bowers,Clamor a bitter mirth.—Or is it heart-break that, forlorn,Would so conceal itself in scorn?At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls,Like feeble feet once beautiful,From mildewed walks to mildewed walls,Down which the oozing moisture fallsUpon the cold toadstool.—Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps—Or is it tears of one who weeps?At night a misty blur of moonSlips through the trees,—pale as a faceOf melancholy marble hewn;—And, like the phantom of some tune,Winds whisper in the place.—Or is it love come back again,Seeking its perished joy in vain?
There rank death clutches at the flowersAnd drags them down and stamps in earth.At morn the thin, malignant hours,Shrill-mouthed among the windy bowers,Clamor a bitter mirth.—Or is it heart-break that, forlorn,Would so conceal itself in scorn?
At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls,Like feeble feet once beautiful,From mildewed walks to mildewed walls,Down which the oozing moisture fallsUpon the cold toadstool.—Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps—Or is it tears of one who weeps?
At night a misty blur of moonSlips through the trees,—pale as a faceOf melancholy marble hewn;—And, like the phantom of some tune,Winds whisper in the place.—Or is it love come back again,Seeking its perished joy in vain?
When in her cloudy chiton,Spring freed the frozen rills,And walked in rainbowed light onThe forests, fields, and hills;Beyond the world's horizon,That no such glory lies on,And no such hues bedizen,Love led us far from ills.When Summer came, a sickleStuck in her sheaf of gleams,And let the honey trickleFrom out the beehives' seams;Within the violet-blottedSweet book to us alloted,—Whose lines are starry dotted,—Love read us still his dreams.Then Autumn came,—a liar,A fair-faced heretic;—In gypsy garb of fire,Throned on a harvest rick.—Our lives, that fate had thwarted,Stood pale and broken hearted,—Though smiling when we parted,—Where love to death lay sick.Now is the Winter waited,The tyrant hoar and old,With death and hunger mated,Who counts his crimes like gold.—Once more before foreverWe part—once more, then never—Once more before we severMust I his face behold!
When in her cloudy chiton,Spring freed the frozen rills,And walked in rainbowed light onThe forests, fields, and hills;Beyond the world's horizon,That no such glory lies on,And no such hues bedizen,Love led us far from ills.
When Summer came, a sickleStuck in her sheaf of gleams,And let the honey trickleFrom out the beehives' seams;Within the violet-blottedSweet book to us alloted,—Whose lines are starry dotted,—Love read us still his dreams.
Then Autumn came,—a liar,A fair-faced heretic;—In gypsy garb of fire,Throned on a harvest rick.—Our lives, that fate had thwarted,Stood pale and broken hearted,—Though smiling when we parted,—Where love to death lay sick.
Now is the Winter waited,The tyrant hoar and old,With death and hunger mated,Who counts his crimes like gold.—Once more before foreverWe part—once more, then never—Once more before we severMust I his face behold!
What little things are thoseThat hold our happiness!A smile, a glance, a roseDropped from her hair or dress;A word, a look, a touch,—These are so much, so much.An air we can't forget;A sunset's gold that gleams;A spray of migonette,Will fill the soul with dreamsMore than all history says,Or romance of old days.For of the human heart,Not brain, is memory;These things it makes a partOf its own entity;The joys, the pains whereofAre the very food of love.
What little things are thoseThat hold our happiness!A smile, a glance, a roseDropped from her hair or dress;A word, a look, a touch,—These are so much, so much.
An air we can't forget;A sunset's gold that gleams;A spray of migonette,Will fill the soul with dreamsMore than all history says,Or romance of old days.
For of the human heart,Not brain, is memory;These things it makes a partOf its own entity;The joys, the pains whereofAre the very food of love.
How true! how true!—but words are weakIn sympathy they give the soul,To music—music, that can speakAll the heart's pain and dole;Still making us remember mostThe love we've lost, the love we've lost.So weary am I, and so fainTo see his face, to feel his kissThrill rapture through my soul again,There is no hell like this.—Ah, God! my God, were it not bestTo give me rest, to give me rest?
How true! how true!—but words are weakIn sympathy they give the soul,To music—music, that can speakAll the heart's pain and dole;Still making us remember mostThe love we've lost, the love we've lost.
So weary am I, and so fainTo see his face, to feel his kissThrill rapture through my soul again,There is no hell like this.—Ah, God! my God, were it not bestTo give me rest, to give me rest?
Dead lie the dreams we cherished,The dreams we loved so well;Like forest leaves they perished,Like autumn leaves they fell.Alas! that dreams so soon should pass!Alas! Alas!The stream lies bleak and aridThat once went singing on;The flowers once that variedIts banks are dead and gone:Where these were once are thorns and thirst—The place is curst.Come to me; I am lonely:Forgive what you have heard.—Come to me; if for onlyOne last sad parting word:For one last word before the pallFalls over all.The day and hour are suitedFor what I'd say to youOf love that I uprooted—But I have suffered too!Come to me; I would say good-byBefore I die.
Dead lie the dreams we cherished,The dreams we loved so well;Like forest leaves they perished,Like autumn leaves they fell.Alas! that dreams so soon should pass!Alas! Alas!
The stream lies bleak and aridThat once went singing on;The flowers once that variedIts banks are dead and gone:Where these were once are thorns and thirst—The place is curst.
Come to me; I am lonely:Forgive what you have heard.—Come to me; if for onlyOne last sad parting word:For one last word before the pallFalls over all.
The day and hour are suitedFor what I'd say to youOf love that I uprooted—But I have suffered too!Come to me; I would say good-byBefore I die.
Woods, that beat the wind with franticGestures and drop darkly 'roundAcorns gnarled and leaves that anticWildly on the rustling ground!Is it tragic grief that saddensThrough your souls this autumn day?Or the joy of death that gladdensIn exultance of decay?Arrogant you lift defiantBoughs against the moaning blast,That, like some invisible giant,Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.Is it that in such insurgentFury tossed from tree to tree,You would quench the fiercely urgentPangs of some old memory?As in toil and violent action,That still help them to forget,Mortals drown the dark distractionAnd insistence of regret.
Woods, that beat the wind with franticGestures and drop darkly 'roundAcorns gnarled and leaves that anticWildly on the rustling ground!
Is it tragic grief that saddensThrough your souls this autumn day?Or the joy of death that gladdensIn exultance of decay?
Arrogant you lift defiantBoughs against the moaning blast,That, like some invisible giant,Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.
Is it that in such insurgentFury tossed from tree to tree,You would quench the fiercely urgentPangs of some old memory?
As in toil and violent action,That still help them to forget,Mortals drown the dark distractionAnd insistence of regret.
Last night I slept till midnight; then woke, and far awayA cock crowed; lonely and distant came mournful a watch-dog's bay:But lonelier, sadder the tedious, old clock ticked on towards day.And what a day!—remember those morns of summer and spring,That bound our lives together! each morn a wedding-ringOf dew, aroma and sparkle, and flowers and birds a-wing.Sweet morns when I strolled my garden awaiting him, the roseExpected too, with blushes—the Giant-of-Battle that growsA bank of radiance and fragrance where the gate its shadow throws.Not in vain did I wait, departed summer, amid your phlox!The powdery crystal and crimson of your hollow hollyhocks;Your fairy-bells and poppies and the bee that in them rocks.Cool-clad 'neath the pendulous purple of the morning-glory vine,By the jewel-mine of the pansies and the snapdragons in line,I waited, and there he met me whose heart was one with mine.How warm was the breath of the garden when he met me there that day!How the burnished beetle and butterfly flew past us, each a ray!—The memory of those meetings still bears me far away.Ah, me! when I think of the handfuls of little gold coins a-massMy bachelor's-buttons scattered over the garden grass,And the marigolds that boasted their bits of burning brass;More bitter I feel the autumn tighten 'round spirit and heart;And regret the days remembered as lost—that stand apart,A chapter holy and sacred, I read with eyes that smart.Again to the woods a-trysting by the watermill I steal,Where the lilies tumble together, the madcap wind at heel;And meet him among the blossoms that the rocks and the trees conceal.Or the wild-cat grey of the meadows that the ox-eyed daisies dot;Fawn-eyed and tiger-yellow, that tangle a tawny spotOf languid leopard beauty that dozes fierce and hot....Ah! back again with the present! with winds that pinch and twistThe leaves in their peevish passion, and whirl wherever they list;With the autumn, hoary and nipping, whose mausolean mistBuilds wan a tomb for the daylight;—each morning shaggy with fog,That fits grey wigs to the cedars, and furs with frost each log;That carpets with pearl the meadow, and marbles brook and bog,—Alone at dawn—indifferent: alone at eve—I sigh:And wait, like the wind complaining: complain and know not why:But ailing and longing and pining because I do not die.How dull is that sunset! dreary and cold, and hard and dead!The ghost of the one last August that, deeply rich and red,Like the wine of God's own vintage, poured purple overhead.But now I sit with the sighing dead dreams of a dying year;Like the fallen leaves and the acorns, am worthless and feel as sear,With a withered soul and body whose heart is one big tear.As I stare from my window the daylight, like a bravo, its cloak puts on.The moon, like a cautious lanthorn, glitters and then is gone.—Will he come to-night? will he answer?—Oh, God! would it were dawn!
Last night I slept till midnight; then woke, and far awayA cock crowed; lonely and distant came mournful a watch-dog's bay:But lonelier, sadder the tedious, old clock ticked on towards day.
And what a day!—remember those morns of summer and spring,That bound our lives together! each morn a wedding-ringOf dew, aroma and sparkle, and flowers and birds a-wing.
Sweet morns when I strolled my garden awaiting him, the roseExpected too, with blushes—the Giant-of-Battle that growsA bank of radiance and fragrance where the gate its shadow throws.
Not in vain did I wait, departed summer, amid your phlox!The powdery crystal and crimson of your hollow hollyhocks;Your fairy-bells and poppies and the bee that in them rocks.
Cool-clad 'neath the pendulous purple of the morning-glory vine,By the jewel-mine of the pansies and the snapdragons in line,I waited, and there he met me whose heart was one with mine.
How warm was the breath of the garden when he met me there that day!How the burnished beetle and butterfly flew past us, each a ray!—The memory of those meetings still bears me far away.
Ah, me! when I think of the handfuls of little gold coins a-massMy bachelor's-buttons scattered over the garden grass,And the marigolds that boasted their bits of burning brass;
More bitter I feel the autumn tighten 'round spirit and heart;And regret the days remembered as lost—that stand apart,A chapter holy and sacred, I read with eyes that smart.
Again to the woods a-trysting by the watermill I steal,Where the lilies tumble together, the madcap wind at heel;And meet him among the blossoms that the rocks and the trees conceal.
Or the wild-cat grey of the meadows that the ox-eyed daisies dot;Fawn-eyed and tiger-yellow, that tangle a tawny spotOf languid leopard beauty that dozes fierce and hot....
Ah! back again with the present! with winds that pinch and twistThe leaves in their peevish passion, and whirl wherever they list;With the autumn, hoary and nipping, whose mausolean mist
Builds wan a tomb for the daylight;—each morning shaggy with fog,That fits grey wigs to the cedars, and furs with frost each log;That carpets with pearl the meadow, and marbles brook and bog,—
Alone at dawn—indifferent: alone at eve—I sigh:And wait, like the wind complaining: complain and know not why:But ailing and longing and pining because I do not die.
How dull is that sunset! dreary and cold, and hard and dead!The ghost of the one last August that, deeply rich and red,Like the wine of God's own vintage, poured purple overhead.
But now I sit with the sighing dead dreams of a dying year;Like the fallen leaves and the acorns, am worthless and feel as sear,With a withered soul and body whose heart is one big tear.
As I stare from my window the daylight, like a bravo, its cloak puts on.The moon, like a cautious lanthorn, glitters and then is gone.—Will he come to-night? will he answer?—Oh, God! would it were dawn!
They said you were dying—You shall not die!...Why are you crying?Why do you sigh?—Cease that sad sighing!—Love, it is I.All is forgiven!—Love is not poor;Though he was drivenOnce from your door,Back he has striven,To part nevermore!Will you rememberWhat I forget?—Words, each an ember,That you regret?Now in November,Now we have met?What if love wept once!What though you knew!What if he crept oncePleading to you!—He never slept once,Nor was untrue.Often forgetful,Love may forget;Froward and fretful,Dear, he will fret;Ever regretful,He will regret.Life is completerThrough his control;Living made sweeterEven through dole,Hearing Love's metreSing in the soul.Flesh may not hear it,Being impure;And mind may fear it,May not endure;But in the spirit—There we are sure.So when to-morrowCeases, and weQuit this we borrow,Mortality,Love chastens sorrowSo it can see....Still you are weeping!Why do you weep?—Are tears in keepingWith joy so deep?Gladness so sweeping?—Are you asleep?Speak to me, dearest!Say it is true!—That I am nearest,Dearest to you.—Smile with those clearestEyes of grey blue.
They said you were dying—You shall not die!...Why are you crying?Why do you sigh?—Cease that sad sighing!—Love, it is I.
All is forgiven!—Love is not poor;Though he was drivenOnce from your door,Back he has striven,To part nevermore!
Will you rememberWhat I forget?—Words, each an ember,That you regret?Now in November,Now we have met?
What if love wept once!What though you knew!What if he crept oncePleading to you!—He never slept once,Nor was untrue.
Often forgetful,Love may forget;Froward and fretful,Dear, he will fret;Ever regretful,He will regret.
Life is completerThrough his control;Living made sweeterEven through dole,Hearing Love's metreSing in the soul.
Flesh may not hear it,Being impure;And mind may fear it,May not endure;But in the spirit—There we are sure.
So when to-morrowCeases, and weQuit this we borrow,Mortality,Love chastens sorrowSo it can see....
Still you are weeping!Why do you weep?—Are tears in keepingWith joy so deep?Gladness so sweeping?—Are you asleep?
Speak to me, dearest!Say it is true!—That I am nearest,Dearest to you.—Smile with those clearestEyes of grey blue.
They did not say I could not live beyond this weary night,But now I know that I shall die before the morning's light.How weak I am!—but you'll forgive me when I tell you howI loved you—love you; and the pain it is to leave you now?We could not marry!—See, the flesh, that clothes the soul of me,Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity,Denied, forbade.—Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeksFlush hectic, as before the night the west burns blood-red streaks?Consumption.—"But I promised you my hand"?—a thing forlornOf life; diseased!—Oh, God!—and so, far better so, forsworn!—Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had diedEre babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side!Had it been little then—your grief, when Heaven had made us oneIn everything that's good on earth and then the good undone?No! no! and had I had a child, what grief and agonyTo know that blight born in him, too, against all help of me!Just when we cherish him the most, and youthful, sunny prideSits on his curly front, to see him die ere we have died.—Whose fault?—Ah, God!—not mine! but his, that ancestor who gaveEscutcheon to our humble house—a Death's-head and a Grave.Beneath the pomp of those grim arms I live and may not move;Nor faith, nor truth, nor wealth avail to hurl them down, nor love!How could I tell you this?—not then! when all the world was spunOf morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon.I could not tell you how disease hid here a hideous germ,Precedence slowly claiming and so slowly fixing firm.And when I broke our plighted troth and would not tell you why,I loved you, thinking, "time enough when I have come to die."Draw off my rings, and let my hands rest so ... the wretched coughWill interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off....Ah, anyhow my anodyne is this—to know that youAre near me, love me!—Kiss me now, as you were wont to do.And tell me you forgive me all; and say you will forgetThe sorrow of that breaking-off, the fever and the fret.—Now set those roses near my face and tell me death's a lie—Once it was hard for me to live ... now it is hard to die.
They did not say I could not live beyond this weary night,But now I know that I shall die before the morning's light.How weak I am!—but you'll forgive me when I tell you howI loved you—love you; and the pain it is to leave you now?
We could not marry!—See, the flesh, that clothes the soul of me,Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity,Denied, forbade.—Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeksFlush hectic, as before the night the west burns blood-red streaks?
Consumption.—"But I promised you my hand"?—a thing forlornOf life; diseased!—Oh, God!—and so, far better so, forsworn!—Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had diedEre babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side!
Had it been little then—your grief, when Heaven had made us oneIn everything that's good on earth and then the good undone?No! no! and had I had a child, what grief and agonyTo know that blight born in him, too, against all help of me!
Just when we cherish him the most, and youthful, sunny prideSits on his curly front, to see him die ere we have died.—Whose fault?—Ah, God!—not mine! but his, that ancestor who gaveEscutcheon to our humble house—a Death's-head and a Grave.
Beneath the pomp of those grim arms I live and may not move;Nor faith, nor truth, nor wealth avail to hurl them down, nor love!How could I tell you this?—not then! when all the world was spunOf morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon.
I could not tell you how disease hid here a hideous germ,Precedence slowly claiming and so slowly fixing firm.And when I broke our plighted troth and would not tell you why,I loved you, thinking, "time enough when I have come to die."
Draw off my rings, and let my hands rest so ... the wretched coughWill interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off....Ah, anyhow my anodyne is this—to know that youAre near me, love me!—Kiss me now, as you were wont to do.
And tell me you forgive me all; and say you will forgetThe sorrow of that breaking-off, the fever and the fret.—Now set those roses near my face and tell me death's a lie—Once it was hard for me to live ... now it is hard to die.
We, whom God sets a task,Striving, who ne'er attain,We are the curst!—who askDeath, and still ask in vain.We, whom God sets a task.
We, whom God sets a task,Striving, who ne'er attain,We are the curst!—who askDeath, and still ask in vain.We, whom God sets a task.
We, whom God sets a task,Striving, who ne'er attain,We are the curst!—who askDeath, and still ask in vain.We, whom God sets a task.
All, all are shadows. All must passAs writing in the sand or sea;Reflections in a looking-glassAre not less permanent than we.The days that mould us—what are they?That break us on their whirling wheel?What but the potters! we the clayThey fashion and yet leave unreal.Linked through the ages, one and all,In long anthropomorphous chain,The human and the animalInseparably must remain.Within us still the monster shapeThat shrieked in air and howled in slime,What are we?—partly man and ape—The tools of fate, the toys of time!
All, all are shadows. All must passAs writing in the sand or sea;Reflections in a looking-glassAre not less permanent than we.
The days that mould us—what are they?That break us on their whirling wheel?What but the potters! we the clayThey fashion and yet leave unreal.
Linked through the ages, one and all,In long anthropomorphous chain,The human and the animalInseparably must remain.
Within us still the monster shapeThat shrieked in air and howled in slime,What are we?—partly man and ape—The tools of fate, the toys of time!
Vased in her bedroom window, whiteAs her chaste girlhood, never lost,I smelt the roses—and the nightOutside was fog and frost.What though I claimed her dying there!God nor one angel understoodNor cared, who from sweet feet to hairHad changed to snow her blood.She had been mine so long, so long!Our harp of life was one in word—Why did death thrust his hand amongThe chords and break one chord!A placid lily was the face,A sad pale rose the mouth I kissedThat morn, when filled with Heaven's own graceShe passed into the mist.
Vased in her bedroom window, whiteAs her chaste girlhood, never lost,I smelt the roses—and the nightOutside was fog and frost.
What though I claimed her dying there!God nor one angel understoodNor cared, who from sweet feet to hairHad changed to snow her blood.
She had been mine so long, so long!Our harp of life was one in word—Why did death thrust his hand amongThe chords and break one chord!
A placid lily was the face,A sad pale rose the mouth I kissedThat morn, when filled with Heaven's own graceShe passed into the mist.
The face that I said farewell to,Pillowed a flower on flowers,Comes back with its eyes to tell toMy soul what its lips would spell too—Comes back to me at hours!—Dear, is your heart still daggeredThere by something amiss?Love—is he still a laggard?Hope—is her face still haggardTell me what it is!You, who are done with To-morrow!Done with these worldly skies!Done with our pain and sorrow!Done with the griefs we borrow!Prayers and tears and sighs!Must we say "gone forever"?Or will it all come true?Shall I attain to you ever?And, o'er the doubts that sever,Rise to the truth that's you?Love, in my flesh so fearful,Medicine me this pain!—Love, with the eyes so tearful,How can my soul be cheerful,Seeing its joy is slain!Gone!—'twas only a vision!—Gone! like a thought, a gleam!—Such to our indecisionUtter no empty mission,Truer than that they seem.
The face that I said farewell to,Pillowed a flower on flowers,Comes back with its eyes to tell toMy soul what its lips would spell too—Comes back to me at hours!—
Dear, is your heart still daggeredThere by something amiss?Love—is he still a laggard?Hope—is her face still haggardTell me what it is!
You, who are done with To-morrow!Done with these worldly skies!Done with our pain and sorrow!Done with the griefs we borrow!Prayers and tears and sighs!
Must we say "gone forever"?Or will it all come true?Shall I attain to you ever?And, o'er the doubts that sever,Rise to the truth that's you?
Love, in my flesh so fearful,Medicine me this pain!—Love, with the eyes so tearful,How can my soul be cheerful,Seeing its joy is slain!
Gone!—'twas only a vision!—Gone! like a thought, a gleam!—Such to our indecisionUtter no empty mission,Truer than that they seem.