SUSPENSEA woman's figure, on a ground of nightInlaid with sallow stars that dimly stareDown in the lonesome eyes, uplifted thereAs in vague hope some alien lance of lightMight pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight—The salt and bitter blood of her despair—Her hands toss back through torrents of her hairAnd grip toward God with anguish infinite.And O the carven mouth, with all its greatIntensity of longing frozen fastIn such a smile as well may designateThe slowly murdered heart, that, to the lastConceals each newer wound, and back at FateThrobs Love's eternal lie—"Lo, I can wait!"
SUSPENSE
A woman's figure, on a ground of nightInlaid with sallow stars that dimly stareDown in the lonesome eyes, uplifted thereAs in vague hope some alien lance of lightMight pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight—The salt and bitter blood of her despair—Her hands toss back through torrents of her hairAnd grip toward God with anguish infinite.And O the carven mouth, with all its greatIntensity of longing frozen fastIn such a smile as well may designateThe slowly murdered heart, that, to the lastConceals each newer wound, and back at FateThrobs Love's eternal lie—"Lo, I can wait!"
THE RIVALI so loved once, When Death came by I hidAway my face,And all my sweetheart's tresses she undidTo make my hiding-place.The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; andI turned me thenTo calm my love—kiss down her shielding handAnd comfort her again.And lo! she answered not: And she did sitAll fixedly,With her fair face and the sweet smile of it,In love with Death, not me.
THE RIVAL
I so loved once, When Death came by I hidAway my face,And all my sweetheart's tresses she undidTo make my hiding-place.
The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; andI turned me thenTo calm my love—kiss down her shielding handAnd comfort her again.
And lo! she answered not: And she did sitAll fixedly,With her fair face and the sweet smile of it,In love with Death, not me.
TOM VAN ARDENTom van Arden, my old friend,Our warm fellowship is oneFar too old to comprehendWhere its bond was first begun:Mirage-like before my gazeGleams a land of other days,Where two truant boys, astray,Dream their lazy lives away.
TOM VAN ARDEN
Tom van Arden, my old friend,Our warm fellowship is oneFar too old to comprehendWhere its bond was first begun:Mirage-like before my gazeGleams a land of other days,Where two truant boys, astray,Dream their lazy lives away.
There's a vision, in the guiseOf Midsummer, where the PastLike a weary beggar liesIn the shadow Time has cast;And as blends the bloom of treesWith the drowsy hum of bees,Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.Tom Van Arden, my old friend,All the pleasures we have knownThrill me now as I extendThis old hand and grasp your own—Feeling, in the rude caress,All affection's tenderness;Feeling, though the touch be rough,Our old souls are soft enough.So we'll make a mellow hour;Fill your pipe, and taste the wine—Warp your face, if it be sour,I can spare a smile from mine;If it sharpen up your wit,Let me feel the edge of it—I have eager ears to lend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?Are we all that we pretendIn the jolly life we lead?—Bachelors, we must confessBoast of "single blessedness"To the world, but not alone—Man's best sorrow is his own.And the saddest truth is this,—Life to us has never provedWhat we tasted in the kissOf the women we have loved:Vainly we congratulateOur escape from such a fateAs their lying lips could send,Tom Van Arden, my old friend!Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,Ripen sweetest, I contend,As the frost falls over them:
There's a vision, in the guiseOf Midsummer, where the PastLike a weary beggar liesIn the shadow Time has cast;And as blends the bloom of treesWith the drowsy hum of bees,Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,All the pleasures we have knownThrill me now as I extendThis old hand and grasp your own—Feeling, in the rude caress,All affection's tenderness;Feeling, though the touch be rough,Our old souls are soft enough.
So we'll make a mellow hour;Fill your pipe, and taste the wine—Warp your face, if it be sour,I can spare a smile from mine;If it sharpen up your wit,Let me feel the edge of it—I have eager ears to lend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?Are we all that we pretendIn the jolly life we lead?—Bachelors, we must confessBoast of "single blessedness"To the world, but not alone—Man's best sorrow is his own.
And the saddest truth is this,—Life to us has never provedWhat we tasted in the kissOf the women we have loved:Vainly we congratulateOur escape from such a fateAs their lying lips could send,Tom Van Arden, my old friend!
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,Ripen sweetest, I contend,As the frost falls over them:
Your regard for me to-dayMakes November taste of May,And through every vein of rhymePours the blood of summertime.When our souls are cramped with youthHappiness seems far awayIn the future, while, in truth,We look back on it to-dayThrough our tears, nor dare to boast,—"Better to have loved and lost!"Broken hearts are hard to mend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.Tom Van Arden, my old friend,I grow prosy, and you tire;Fill the glasses while I bendTo prod up the failing fire....You are restless:—I presumeThere's a dampness in the room.—Much of warmth our nature begs,With rheumatics in our legs!...Humph! the legs we used to flingLimber-jointed in the dance,When we heard the fiddle ringUp the curtain of Romance,And in crowded public hallsPlayed with hearts like jugglers'-balls.—Feats of mountebanks, depend!—Tom Van Arden, my old friend.Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Pardon, then, this theme of mine:While the fire-light leaps to lendHigher color to the wine,—I propose a health to thoseWho havehomes, and home's repose,Wife and child-love without end!... Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Your regard for me to-dayMakes November taste of May,And through every vein of rhymePours the blood of summertime.
When our souls are cramped with youthHappiness seems far awayIn the future, while, in truth,We look back on it to-dayThrough our tears, nor dare to boast,—"Better to have loved and lost!"Broken hearts are hard to mend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,I grow prosy, and you tire;Fill the glasses while I bendTo prod up the failing fire....You are restless:—I presumeThere's a dampness in the room.—Much of warmth our nature begs,With rheumatics in our legs!...
Humph! the legs we used to flingLimber-jointed in the dance,When we heard the fiddle ringUp the curtain of Romance,And in crowded public hallsPlayed with hearts like jugglers'-balls.—Feats of mountebanks, depend!—Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Pardon, then, this theme of mine:While the fire-light leaps to lendHigher color to the wine,—I propose a health to thoseWho havehomes, and home's repose,Wife and child-love without end!... Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
TO HEAR HER SINGTo hear her sing—to hear her sing—It is to hear the birds of SpringIn dewy groves on blooming spraysPour out their blithest roundelays.It is to hear the robin trillAt morning, or the whippoorwillAt dusk, when stars are blossomingTo hear her sing—to hear her sing!To hear her sing—it is to hearThe laugh of childhood ringing clearIn woody path or grassy laneOur feet may never fare again.Faint, far away as Memory dwells,It is to hear the village bellsAt twilight, as the truant hearsThem, hastening home, with smiles and tears.Such joy it is to hear her sing,We fall in love with everything—The simple things of every dayGrow lovelier than words can say.The idle brooks that purl acrossThe gleaming pebbles and the moss,We love no less than classic streams—The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.To hear her sing—with folded eyes,It is, beneath Venetian skies,To hear the gondoliers' refrain,Or troubadours of sunny Spain.—To hear the bulbul's voice that shookThe throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:What wonder we in homage bringOur hearts to her—to hear her sing!
TO HEAR HER SING
To hear her sing—to hear her sing—It is to hear the birds of SpringIn dewy groves on blooming spraysPour out their blithest roundelays.
It is to hear the robin trillAt morning, or the whippoorwillAt dusk, when stars are blossomingTo hear her sing—to hear her sing!
To hear her sing—it is to hearThe laugh of childhood ringing clearIn woody path or grassy laneOur feet may never fare again.
Faint, far away as Memory dwells,It is to hear the village bellsAt twilight, as the truant hearsThem, hastening home, with smiles and tears.
Such joy it is to hear her sing,We fall in love with everything—The simple things of every dayGrow lovelier than words can say.
The idle brooks that purl acrossThe gleaming pebbles and the moss,We love no less than classic streams—The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.
To hear her sing—with folded eyes,It is, beneath Venetian skies,To hear the gondoliers' refrain,Or troubadours of sunny Spain.—
To hear the bulbul's voice that shookThe throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:What wonder we in homage bringOur hearts to her—to hear her sing!
A VARIATIONI am tired of this!Nothing else but loving!Nothing else but kiss and kiss,Coo, and turtle-doving!Can't you change the order some?Hate me just a little—come!Lay aside your "dears,""Darlings," "kings," and "princes!"—Call me knave, and dry your tears—Nothing in me winces,—Call me something low and base—Something that will suit the case!Wish I had your eyesAnd their drooping lashes!I would dry their teary liesUp with lightning-flashes—Make your sobbing lips unsheatheAll the glitter of your teeth!Can't you lift one word—With some pang of laughter—Louder than the drowsy birdCrooning 'neath the rafter?Just one bitter word, to shriekMadly at me as I speak!How I hate the fairBeauty of your forehead!
A VARIATION
I am tired of this!Nothing else but loving!Nothing else but kiss and kiss,Coo, and turtle-doving!Can't you change the order some?Hate me just a little—come!
Lay aside your "dears,""Darlings," "kings," and "princes!"—Call me knave, and dry your tears—Nothing in me winces,—Call me something low and base—Something that will suit the case!
Wish I had your eyesAnd their drooping lashes!I would dry their teary liesUp with lightning-flashes—Make your sobbing lips unsheatheAll the glitter of your teeth!
Can't you lift one word—With some pang of laughter—Louder than the drowsy birdCrooning 'neath the rafter?Just one bitter word, to shriekMadly at me as I speak!
How I hate the fairBeauty of your forehead!
How I hate your fragrant hair!How I hate the torridTouches of your splendid lips,And the kiss that drips and drips!Ah, you pale at last!And your face is liftedLike a white sail to the blast,And your hands are shiftedInto fists: and, towering thus,You are simply glorious!Now before me loomsSomething more than human;Something more than beauty bloomsIn the wrath of Woman—Something to bow down beforeReverently and adore.
How I hate your fragrant hair!How I hate the torridTouches of your splendid lips,And the kiss that drips and drips!
Ah, you pale at last!And your face is liftedLike a white sail to the blast,And your hands are shiftedInto fists: and, towering thus,You are simply glorious!
Now before me loomsSomething more than human;Something more than beauty bloomsIn the wrath of Woman—Something to bow down beforeReverently and adore.
WHERE SHALL WE LAND?"Where shall we land you, sweet?"—Swinburne.All listlessly we floatOut seaward in the boatThat beareth Love.Our sails of purest snowBend to the blue belowAnd to the blue above.Where shall be land?We drift upon a tideShoreless on every side,Save where the eyeOf Fancy sweeps far landsShelved slopingly with sandsOf gold and porphyry.Where shall we land?The fairy isles we see,Loom up so mistily—So vaguely fair,We do not care to breakFresh bubbles in our wakeTo bend our course for there.Where shall we land?The warm winds of the deepHave lulled our sails to sleep,And so we glideCareless of wave or wind,Or change of any kind,Or turn of any tide.Where shall we land?We droop our dreamy eyesWhere our reflection liesSteeped in the sea,And, in an endless fitOf languor, smile on itAnd its sweet mimicry.Where shall we land?"Where shall we land?" God's grace!I know not any placeSo fair as this—Swung here between the blueOf sea and sky, with youTo ask me, with a kiss,"Where shall we land?"THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDSThe touches of her hands are like the fallOf velvet snowflakes; like the touch of downThe peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;The flossy fondling of the thistle-wispCaught in the crinkle of a leaf of brownThe blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,The touches of her hands, and the delight—The touches of her hands!The touches of her hands are like the dewThat falls so softly down no one e'er knewThe touch thereof save lovers like to oneAstray in lights where ranged Endymion.O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;Or—in between the midnight and the dawn,When long unrest and tears and fears are gone—Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.
WHERE SHALL WE LAND?
"Where shall we land you, sweet?"—Swinburne.
All listlessly we floatOut seaward in the boatThat beareth Love.Our sails of purest snowBend to the blue belowAnd to the blue above.Where shall be land?
We drift upon a tideShoreless on every side,Save where the eyeOf Fancy sweeps far landsShelved slopingly with sandsOf gold and porphyry.Where shall we land?
The fairy isles we see,Loom up so mistily—So vaguely fair,We do not care to breakFresh bubbles in our wakeTo bend our course for there.Where shall we land?
The warm winds of the deepHave lulled our sails to sleep,And so we glideCareless of wave or wind,Or change of any kind,Or turn of any tide.Where shall we land?
We droop our dreamy eyesWhere our reflection liesSteeped in the sea,And, in an endless fitOf languor, smile on itAnd its sweet mimicry.Where shall we land?
"Where shall we land?" God's grace!I know not any placeSo fair as this—Swung here between the blueOf sea and sky, with youTo ask me, with a kiss,"Where shall we land?"
THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS
The touches of her hands are like the fallOf velvet snowflakes; like the touch of downThe peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall;The flossy fondling of the thistle-wispCaught in the crinkle of a leaf of brownThe blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.
Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,The touches of her hands, and the delight—The touches of her hands!The touches of her hands are like the dewThat falls so softly down no one e'er knewThe touch thereof save lovers like to oneAstray in lights where ranged Endymion.
O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;Or—in between the midnight and the dawn,When long unrest and tears and fears are gone—Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.
FARMER WHIPPLE—BACHELORIt's a mystery to see me—a man o' fifty-four,Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year and more—A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can sayThat you can guess the reason why I feel so goodto-day!I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviateA little in beginning, so's to set the matter straightAs to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife—Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life!I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five—Three brothers and a sister—I'm the only one alive,—Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways,You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise.The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat—We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that!But someway we sort o'suited-like! and Mother she'd declareShe never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair
FARMER WHIPPLE—BACHELOR
It's a mystery to see me—a man o' fifty-four,Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year and more—A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can sayThat you can guess the reason why I feel so goodto-day!
I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviateA little in beginning, so's to set the matter straightAs to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife—Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life!
I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five—Three brothers and a sister—I'm the only one alive,—Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways,You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise.
The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat—We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that!But someway we sort o'suited-like! and Mother she'd declareShe never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair
Thanwewas! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year',And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!—W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believeWarn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve!I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' prideIn thinkin' all depended onmenow to pervideFer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the placeWith sleeves rolled up—and working with a mighty smilin' face.—Fersompin' elsewas workin'! but not a word I saidOf a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,—"Someday I'd mayby marry, anda brother'slove was oneThing—a lover'swas another!" was the way the notion run!I remember one't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done—When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-oneI was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day—A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way!And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane:I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain.Well—when she turned andkissedme,with her arms around me—law!I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw!I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fact,They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a' almanack—Ersomers-—'bout "puore happiness"—- perhaps some folks'll laughAt the idy—"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."—But it's jest as true as preachin'!—fer that wasa sister'skiss,And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:—"Shewas happy,bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown."—And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down!
Thanwewas! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year',And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!—W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believeWarn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve!
I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' prideIn thinkin' all depended onmenow to pervideFer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the placeWith sleeves rolled up—and working with a mighty smilin' face.—
Fersompin' elsewas workin'! but not a word I saidOf a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,—"Someday I'd mayby marry, anda brother'slove was oneThing—a lover'swas another!" was the way the notion run!
I remember one't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done—When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-oneI was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day—A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way!
And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane:I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain.Well—when she turned andkissedme,with her arms around me—law!I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw!
I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fact,They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a' almanack—Ersomers-—'bout "puore happiness"—- perhaps some folks'll laughAt the idy—"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."—
But it's jest as true as preachin'!—fer that wasa sister'skiss,And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:—"Shewas happy,bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown."—And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down!
I don't knowhowI acted—I don't knowwhatI said,Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead;And the hosses kindo' glimmered before me in the road.And the lines fell from my fingers—and that was all I knowed—Fer—well, I don't knowhowlong—They's a dim rememberenceOf a sound o' snortin' hosses, and a stake-and-ridered fenceA-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air,And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to whereIwas layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside downA-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round!And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vagueSorto' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg.Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sighAs I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die,And wonder what was leftmeworth livin' fer below,When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know!And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kindWhen Brown and Mary married—Railly must a-been mymindWas kindo' out o' kilter!—fer I hated Brown, you see,Worse'npizen—and the feller whittled crutches out ferme—And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respect—And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck!My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is doneWhen they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one.
I don't knowhowI acted—I don't knowwhatI said,Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead;And the hosses kindo' glimmered before me in the road.And the lines fell from my fingers—and that was all I knowed—
Fer—well, I don't knowhowlong—They's a dim rememberenceOf a sound o' snortin' hosses, and a stake-and-ridered fenceA-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air,And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where
Iwas layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside downA-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round!And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vagueSorto' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg.
Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sighAs I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die,And wonder what was leftmeworth livin' fer below,When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know!
And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kindWhen Brown and Mary married—Railly must a-been mymindWas kindo' out o' kilter!—fer I hated Brown, you see,Worse'npizen—and the feller whittled crutches out ferme—
And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respect—And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck!My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is doneWhen they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one.
Then I went to work in airnest—I had nothin' much in viewBut to drownd out rickollections—and it kep' me busy, too!But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to sayShe expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day.Then I'd think how littlemoneywas, compared to happiness—And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess!But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year,Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near!Well!—A year ago er better, a letter comes to handAstin' how I'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land—"The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state,"Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"—And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."—I'd never been West, anyhow—a most too wild fermeI'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in townSaid I'd find myself mistakened when I come to look around.So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train,A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again—And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be,I think it's more'n likely she'd a-went along with me!Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast!But finally they called out my stoppin'-place at last;And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp'Iwas a trainO' cars, andskeeredat sompin', runnin' down a country lane!Well, in the mornin' airly—after huntin' up the man—The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land—We started fer the country; and I ast the historyOf the farm—its former owner—and so-forth, etcetery!And—well—it was interestin'—I su'prised him, I suppose,By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!—But his surprise was greater, and it made him wonder more,When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!—It was Mary:They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here—Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.—It was with us in that meetin', I don't want you to fergit!And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit!Iboughtthat farm, anddeededit, afore I left the town,With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown!And fu'thermore, I took her andthe childern—fer, you see,They'd never seed their Grandma—and I fetched 'em home with me.Sonowyou've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four,Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more,Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!—And I've jest come into townTo git a pair o' license fer tomarryMary Brown.
Then I went to work in airnest—I had nothin' much in viewBut to drownd out rickollections—and it kep' me busy, too!But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to sayShe expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day.
Then I'd think how littlemoneywas, compared to happiness—And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess!But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year,Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near!
Well!—A year ago er better, a letter comes to handAstin' how I'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land—"The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state,"Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"—
And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."—I'd never been West, anyhow—a most too wild fermeI'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in townSaid I'd find myself mistakened when I come to look around.
So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train,A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again—And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be,I think it's more'n likely she'd a-went along with me!
Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast!But finally they called out my stoppin'-place at last;And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp'Iwas a trainO' cars, andskeeredat sompin', runnin' down a country lane!
Well, in the mornin' airly—after huntin' up the man—The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land—We started fer the country; and I ast the historyOf the farm—its former owner—and so-forth, etcetery!
And—well—it was interestin'—I su'prised him, I suppose,By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!—But his surprise was greater, and it made him wonder more,When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!—
It was Mary:They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here—Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.—It was with us in that meetin', I don't want you to fergit!And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit!
Iboughtthat farm, anddeededit, afore I left the town,With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown!And fu'thermore, I took her andthe childern—fer, you see,They'd never seed their Grandma—and I fetched 'em home with me.
Sonowyou've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four,Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more,Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!—And I've jest come into townTo git a pair o' license fer tomarryMary Brown.
THE ROSEIt tossed its head at the wooing breeze;And the sun, like a bashful swain,Beamed on it through the waving treesWith a passion all in vain,—For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,And hid in the leaves in wait for me.The honey-bee came there to singHis love through the languid hours,And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old kingMight boast of his palace-towers:But my rose bowed in a mockery,And hid in the leaves in wait for me.The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,Dipped down with a dalliant song,And twanged his wings through the roundelayOf love the whole day long:Yet my rose returned from his minstrelsyAnd hid in the leaves in wait for me.The firefly came in the twilight dimMy red, red rose to woo—Till quenched was the flame of love in himAnd the light of his lantern too,As my rose wept with dewdrops threeAnd hid in the leaves in wait for me.And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose—Some day I will claim as mineThe priceless worth of the flower that knowsNo change, but a bloom divine—The bloom of a fadeless constancyThat hides in the leaves in wait for me!But time passed by in a strange disguise,And I marked it not, but layIn a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,Till the summer slipped away,And a chill wind sang in a minor key:"Where is the rose that waits for thee?"I dream to-day, o'er a purple stainOf bloom on a withered stalk,Pelted down by the autumn rainIn the dust of the garden-walk,That an Angel-rose in the world to beWill hide in the leaves in wait for me.WHEN AGE COMES ONWhen Age comes on!—The deepening dusk is where the dawnOnce glittered splendid, and the dewIn honey-drips, from red rose-lipsWas kissed away by me and you.—And now across the frosty lawnBlack foot-prints trail, and Age comes on—And Age comes on!And biting wild-winds whistle throughOur tattered hopes—and Age comes on!When Age comes on!—O tide of raptures, long withdrawn,Flow back in summer-floods, and flingHere at our feet our childhood sweet,And all the songs we used to sing!...Old loves, old friends—all dead and gone—Our old faith lost—and Age comes on—And Age comes on!Poor hearts! have we not anythingBut longings left when Age comes on!
THE ROSE
It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;And the sun, like a bashful swain,Beamed on it through the waving treesWith a passion all in vain,—For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The honey-bee came there to singHis love through the languid hours,And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old kingMight boast of his palace-towers:But my rose bowed in a mockery,And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,Dipped down with a dalliant song,And twanged his wings through the roundelayOf love the whole day long:Yet my rose returned from his minstrelsyAnd hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The firefly came in the twilight dimMy red, red rose to woo—Till quenched was the flame of love in himAnd the light of his lantern too,As my rose wept with dewdrops threeAnd hid in the leaves in wait for me.
And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose—Some day I will claim as mineThe priceless worth of the flower that knowsNo change, but a bloom divine—The bloom of a fadeless constancyThat hides in the leaves in wait for me!
But time passed by in a strange disguise,And I marked it not, but layIn a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,Till the summer slipped away,And a chill wind sang in a minor key:"Where is the rose that waits for thee?"
I dream to-day, o'er a purple stainOf bloom on a withered stalk,Pelted down by the autumn rainIn the dust of the garden-walk,That an Angel-rose in the world to beWill hide in the leaves in wait for me.
WHEN AGE COMES ON
When Age comes on!—The deepening dusk is where the dawnOnce glittered splendid, and the dewIn honey-drips, from red rose-lipsWas kissed away by me and you.—And now across the frosty lawnBlack foot-prints trail, and Age comes on—And Age comes on!And biting wild-winds whistle throughOur tattered hopes—and Age comes on!
When Age comes on!—O tide of raptures, long withdrawn,Flow back in summer-floods, and flingHere at our feet our childhood sweet,And all the songs we used to sing!...Old loves, old friends—all dead and gone—Our old faith lost—and Age comes on—And Age comes on!Poor hearts! have we not anythingBut longings left when Age comes on!
HAS SHE FORGOTTEN?Has she forgotten? On this very MayWe were to meet here, with the birds and bees,As on that Sabbath, underneath the treesWe strayed among the tombs, and stripped awayThe vines from these old granites, cold and gray—And yet indeed not grim enough were theyTo stay our kisses, smiles and ecstasies,Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies.Has she forgotten—that the May has wonIts promise?—that the bird-songs from the treeAre sprayed above the grasses as the sunMight jar the dazzling dew down showeringly?Has she forgotten life—love—everyone—Has she forgotten me—forgotten me?IILow, low down in the violets I pressMy lips and whisper to her. Does she hear,And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,Just as of old, save for the tearfulnessOf the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress?Has she forgotten thus the old caressThat made our breath a quickened atmosphereThat failed nigh unto swooning with the sheerDelight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heapSodden with tears that flow on ceaselesslyAs autumn rains the long, long, long nights weepIn memory of days that used to be,—Has she forgotten these? And in her sleep,Has she forgotten me—forgotten me?IIITo-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,I mean to weld our faces—through the denseIncalculable darkness make pretenseThat she has risen from her reveriesTo mate her dreams with mine in marriagesOf mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense easeOf every longing nerve of indolence,—Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stunMy senses with her kisses—drawl the gleeOf her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,Across mine own, forgetful if is doneThe old love's awful dawn-time when said we,"To-day is ours!" ... Ah, Heaven! can it beShe has forgotten me—forgotten me!
HAS SHE FORGOTTEN?
Has she forgotten? On this very MayWe were to meet here, with the birds and bees,As on that Sabbath, underneath the treesWe strayed among the tombs, and stripped awayThe vines from these old granites, cold and gray—And yet indeed not grim enough were theyTo stay our kisses, smiles and ecstasies,Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies.Has she forgotten—that the May has wonIts promise?—that the bird-songs from the treeAre sprayed above the grasses as the sunMight jar the dazzling dew down showeringly?Has she forgotten life—love—everyone—Has she forgotten me—forgotten me?
II
Low, low down in the violets I pressMy lips and whisper to her. Does she hear,And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,Just as of old, save for the tearfulnessOf the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress?Has she forgotten thus the old caressThat made our breath a quickened atmosphereThat failed nigh unto swooning with the sheerDelight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heapSodden with tears that flow on ceaselesslyAs autumn rains the long, long, long nights weepIn memory of days that used to be,—Has she forgotten these? And in her sleep,Has she forgotten me—forgotten me?
III
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,I mean to weld our faces—through the denseIncalculable darkness make pretenseThat she has risen from her reveriesTo mate her dreams with mine in marriagesOf mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense easeOf every longing nerve of indolence,—Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stunMy senses with her kisses—drawl the gleeOf her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,Across mine own, forgetful if is doneThe old love's awful dawn-time when said we,"To-day is ours!" ... Ah, Heaven! can it beShe has forgotten me—forgotten me!
BLOOMS OF MAYBut yesterday!...O blooms of May,And summer roses—Where-away?O stars above,And lips of loveAnd all the honeyed sweets thereof!O lad and lassAnd orchard-passAnd briered lane, and daisied grass!O gleam and gloom,And woodland bloom,And breezy breaths of all perfume!—No more for meOr mine shall beThy raptures—save in memory,—No more—no more—Till through the DoorOf Glory gleam the days of yore.
BLOOMS OF MAY
But yesterday!...O blooms of May,And summer roses—Where-away?O stars above,And lips of loveAnd all the honeyed sweets thereof!
O lad and lassAnd orchard-passAnd briered lane, and daisied grass!O gleam and gloom,And woodland bloom,And breezy breaths of all perfume!—
No more for meOr mine shall beThy raptures—save in memory,—No more—no more—Till through the DoorOf Glory gleam the days of yore.
THE SERMON OF THE ROSEWilful we are in our infirmityOf childish questioning and discontent.Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant—Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery!Make us to meet what is or is to beWith fervid welcome, knowing it is sentTo serve us in some way full excellent,Though we discern it all belatedly.The rose buds, and the rose blooms and the roseBows in the dews, and in its fulness, lo,Is in the lover's hand,—then on the breastOf her he loves,—and there dies.—And who knowsWhich fate of all a rose may undergoIs fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest?Nay, we are children: we will not mature.A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tearsMust storm our eyes when but a joy appearsIn drear disguise of sorrow; and how poorWe seem when we are richest,—most secureAgainst all poverty the lifelong yearsWe yet must waste in childish doubts and fearsThat, in despite of reason, still endure!Alas! the sermon of the rose we willNot wisely ponder; nor the sobs of griefLulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cryOf fierce defiance that again is still.Be patient—patient with our frail belief,And stay it yet a little ere we die.O opulent life of ours, though dispossessedOf treasure after treasure! Youth most fairWent first, but left its priceless coil of hair—Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressedThrough drip and blur of tears the tenderest.And next went Love—the ripe rose glowing thereHer very sister!... It is here; but whereIs she, of all the world the first and best?And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain—How sweet the sunlight on the garden wallAcross the roses—and how sweetly flowsThe limpid yodel of the brook again!And yet—and yet how sweeter after all,The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose!
THE SERMON OF THE ROSE
Wilful we are in our infirmityOf childish questioning and discontent.Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant—Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery!Make us to meet what is or is to beWith fervid welcome, knowing it is sentTo serve us in some way full excellent,Though we discern it all belatedly.The rose buds, and the rose blooms and the roseBows in the dews, and in its fulness, lo,Is in the lover's hand,—then on the breastOf her he loves,—and there dies.—And who knowsWhich fate of all a rose may undergoIs fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest?
Nay, we are children: we will not mature.A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tearsMust storm our eyes when but a joy appearsIn drear disguise of sorrow; and how poorWe seem when we are richest,—most secureAgainst all poverty the lifelong yearsWe yet must waste in childish doubts and fearsThat, in despite of reason, still endure!Alas! the sermon of the rose we willNot wisely ponder; nor the sobs of griefLulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cryOf fierce defiance that again is still.Be patient—patient with our frail belief,And stay it yet a little ere we die.
O opulent life of ours, though dispossessedOf treasure after treasure! Youth most fairWent first, but left its priceless coil of hair—Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressedThrough drip and blur of tears the tenderest.And next went Love—the ripe rose glowing thereHer very sister!... It is here; but whereIs she, of all the world the first and best?And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain—How sweet the sunlight on the garden wallAcross the roses—and how sweetly flowsThe limpid yodel of the brook again!And yet—and yet how sweeter after all,The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose!