The Project Gutenberg eBook ofVerses

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofVersesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: VersesAuthor: Edith WhartonRelease date: October 24, 2017 [eBook #55807]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, Universityof South Carolina and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: VersesAuthor: Edith WhartonRelease date: October 24, 2017 [eBook #55807]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, Universityof South Carolina and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at http://www.pgdp.net

Title: Verses

Author: Edith Wharton

Release date: October 24, 2017 [eBook #55807]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, Universityof South Carolina and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES ***

VERSES.“Be friendly, pray, to these fancies of mine.”—Bettine Brentano.NEWPORT, R. I.,C. E. HAMMETT,Jr.,1878.

“Be friendly, pray, to these fancies of mine.”—Bettine Brentano.

“Be friendly, pray, to these fancies of mine.”

—Bettine Brentano.

NEWPORT, R. I.,C. E. HAMMETT,Jr.,1878.

(An Organ-stop.)

O soft, caressing sound, more sweet than scentOf violets in woody hollows! ToneAs amorous as the ring-dove’s tender moanBeneath the spreading forest’s leafy tent;What mystery of earth or air hath lentThee that bewitching music, where the droneOf Summer bees in dewy buds new blownWith trembling, fainting melody is blent?What master did conceive thee, as the soundMost fit to woo his lady from her rest,What wakeful maiden in thy wooing foundThe passion of her lover first exprest,And from her silken pillows, beauty-crowned,Stept forth and smiled on him who loved her best?November 10th, 1875.

November 10th, 1875.

It is the vesper hour, and in yon aisleWhere fainting incense clouds the heavy airMy lady’s kneeling at her evening prayer,Alone and silently; for in a fileThe choristers have passed, and left her there,Where martyrs from the tinted windows stare,And saints look downward with a holy smileUpon her meek devotions, while the dayFades slowly, and a tender amber lightFrom coloured panes about her head doth play—Her veil falls like a shade, and ghostly whiteHer clasped hands glimmer through the deepening gray;So will she kneel, until from Heaven’s heightThe Angels bend to hear their sister pray.November 11th, 1875.

November 11th, 1875.

“Be friendly, pray, with these fancies of mine.”Bettine.

Could youth discrown thy head of its gray hair,I could not love it as I love it now;Could one grand line be smoothed from thy brow,’Twould seem to me less stately and less fair.O no, be as thou art! For thou dost wearThe signs of noble age that cannot bowThine intellect like thy form, and I who knowHow each year that did visibly impairThy first fresh youth, left inwardly such grandAnd gracious gifts, would rather have thee so—Believe me, master, who erect doth standIn soul and purpose, age cannot lay lowTill he receive, new from the Father’s handThe youth he did but outwardly forego.April, 1876.

April, 1876.

“O primavera! Gioventù dell’ anno.”

The first warm buds that break their covers,The first young twigs that burst in green,The first blade that the sun discovers,Starting the loosened earth between.The pale soft sky, so clear and tender,With little clouds that break and fly;The crocus, earliest pretenderTo the low breezes passing by;The chirp and twitter of brown builders,A couple in a tree, at least;The watchful wisdom of the eldersFor callow younglings in the nest;The flush of branches with fair blossoms,The deepening of the faint green boughs,As leaf by leaf the crown grows fullerThat binds the young Spring’s rosy brows;New promise every day of sweetness,The next bright dawn is sure to bring;Slow breaking into green completeness,Fresh rapture of the early Spring!May, 1876.

The first warm buds that break their covers,The first young twigs that burst in green,The first blade that the sun discovers,Starting the loosened earth between.

The pale soft sky, so clear and tender,With little clouds that break and fly;The crocus, earliest pretenderTo the low breezes passing by;

The chirp and twitter of brown builders,A couple in a tree, at least;The watchful wisdom of the eldersFor callow younglings in the nest;

The flush of branches with fair blossoms,The deepening of the faint green boughs,As leaf by leaf the crown grows fullerThat binds the young Spring’s rosy brows;

New promise every day of sweetness,The next bright dawn is sure to bring;Slow breaking into green completeness,Fresh rapture of the early Spring!

May, 1876.

I found a wee leaf in the cleftWhere the half-melted ice had leftA sunny corner, moist and warm,For it to bud, beyond all harm.The wet, brown sod,Long horned with ice, had slowly grownSo soft, the tender seedling blownBy Autumn winds, in earliest SpringSent through the sun-warmed covering,Its little leaf to God.I found it there, beneath a ledge,The dawning Spring time’s fairest pledge,And to my mind it dimly broughtThe sudden, joyous, leafy thoughtOf Summer-time.I plucked it from the sheltered cleftWhich the more kindly ice had left.Within my hand to drop and die,But for its sweet suggestions, IRevive it in a rhyme.1876.

I found it there, beneath a ledge,The dawning Spring time’s fairest pledge,And to my mind it dimly broughtThe sudden, joyous, leafy thoughtOf Summer-time.I plucked it from the sheltered cleftWhich the more kindly ice had left.Within my hand to drop and die,But for its sweet suggestions, IRevive it in a rhyme.

1876.

O Love, where are the hours fled,The hours of our young delight?Are they forever gone and dead,Or only vanished out of sight?O can it be that we shall liveTo know once more the joys gone by,To feel the old, deep love revive,And smile again before we die?Could I but fancy it might be,Could I the past bring back again,And for one moment, holding thee,Forget the present and its pain!O Love, those hours are past awayBeyond our longing and our sighs—Perhaps the Angels, some bright day,Will give them back in Paradise!August, 1876.

O Love, where are the hours fled,The hours of our young delight?Are they forever gone and dead,Or only vanished out of sight?

O can it be that we shall liveTo know once more the joys gone by,To feel the old, deep love revive,And smile again before we die?

Could I but fancy it might be,Could I the past bring back again,And for one moment, holding thee,Forget the present and its pain!

O Love, those hours are past awayBeyond our longing and our sighs—Perhaps the Angels, some bright day,Will give them back in Paradise!

August, 1876.

Not over roof and spire doth Heaven lie,Star-sentinelled from our humanity,Beyond the humble reach of every day.And only near us when we weep or pray;But rather in the household and the street,Where loudest is the noise of hurrying feet,Where hearts beat thickest, where our duties call,Where watchers sit, where tears in silence fall.We know not, or forget, there is no lineThat marks our human off from our divine;For all one household, all one familyIn different chamberings labouring are we;God leaves the doors between them open wide,Knowing how life and death are close allied,And though across the threshold, in the gloom,We cannot see into that other room,It may be that the dear ones watching thereCan hear our cry of passionate despair,And wait unseen to lead us through the doorWhen twilight comes, and all our work is o’er.January, 1877.

January, 1877.

She, whom through life her God forbade to hearThe voices of her nearest and most dear,So that she dwelt, amid the hum and rushOf cities, in a vast, eternal hush,Yet heard the first low calling of the voiceThat others had not heeded in the noise,And rising, when it whispered “Come with me,”Followed the form that others could not see,Smiling, perchance, in death at last to hearThe voices of the Angels fill her ear,While the great, silent void that closed her roundWas overflowed with rippled floods of sound,And the dumb past in Alleluias drowned.March, 1877.

March, 1877.

A Fragment.

It is the time when everythingIs flusht with presage of the Spring,When every leaf and twig and budFeels new life rushing like a floodThrough greening veins and bursting tips;When every hour a sunbeam slipsAcross a sleepy flower’s mouth,And wakes it, babbling of the South;When birds are doubtful where or howTo hang their nests on trunk or bough,And all that is in wood or croftBeneath an influence balmy-softTowards the light begins to strive,Feeling how good it is to live!

How beautiful thou standest there,Thyself a prophet of the May!The shining of thy golden hairWould melt December’s snows away.The roses on thy cheeks would wooForth envious blossoms from their sleeps.And robins plume their breasts anewTo mock the crimson of thy lips.

But where would be the golden tresses,With ribands bravely intertwinedAnd where the roses, that thy praisesHave opened like a Summer wind,Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here,To make these empty beauties dear?The Spring would never deck her trainIn such a fair and winsome wiseDid she not seek by smiles to chainThe sun her royal lover’s eyes.1876.

1876.

In our town there dwelt a maidenWhom the folk called Marian;In her narrow gabled casementAll day long she sat and span.Till a gentleman came ridingThrough our town one Summer day,Spied May Marian at the casement,Stole her silly heart away.Then she up and left her spinning,Laid aside her russet gown,In a footboy’s cap and mantleFollowed him to London town.There he led her to a mansionStanding by the river side;“In that mansion dwells the ladyWho is my betrothed bride;“Gif thou’lt be her serving-maiden,Thou shalt wear a braw red gown,Follow her to mass on SundayThrough the streets of London town;“But if thou’lt not be her maiden,Turn about and get thee home;’Tis not meet that country wenchesThrough the city here should roam.”Not a word in answer spake she;Weeping sore she turned away,And alone she gat her homeward,Travelling till the fall of day.To our town she came at gloaming,Softly tirled she at the door;Whispered: “let me in, sweet mother,I will wander never more.”“I will turn me to my spinning,I will don my russet gown;Home is best for country lasses,Men are false in London town.”But the door was shut against her,To her prayer came answer none.All night long alone she wandered,Wandered weeping through our town.But at dawn she was aweary—In the street she laid her down;And they found her dead at sunriseWith her head upon a stone.

In our town there dwelt a maidenWhom the folk called Marian;In her narrow gabled casementAll day long she sat and span.

Till a gentleman came ridingThrough our town one Summer day,Spied May Marian at the casement,Stole her silly heart away.

Then she up and left her spinning,Laid aside her russet gown,In a footboy’s cap and mantleFollowed him to London town.

There he led her to a mansionStanding by the river side;“In that mansion dwells the ladyWho is my betrothed bride;

“Gif thou’lt be her serving-maiden,Thou shalt wear a braw red gown,Follow her to mass on SundayThrough the streets of London town;

“But if thou’lt not be her maiden,Turn about and get thee home;’Tis not meet that country wenchesThrough the city here should roam.”

Not a word in answer spake she;Weeping sore she turned away,And alone she gat her homeward,Travelling till the fall of day.

To our town she came at gloaming,Softly tirled she at the door;Whispered: “let me in, sweet mother,I will wander never more.”

“I will turn me to my spinning,I will don my russet gown;Home is best for country lasses,Men are false in London town.”

But the door was shut against her,To her prayer came answer none.All night long alone she wandered,Wandered weeping through our town.

But at dawn she was aweary—In the street she laid her down;And they found her dead at sunriseWith her head upon a stone.

Ladies, listen to my ballad:Maidens are too lightly won;Home is best for country lasses,Men are false in London town.1876.

Ladies, listen to my ballad:Maidens are too lightly won;Home is best for country lasses,Men are false in London town.

1876.

Who knows his opportunities? They comeNot trumpet-tongued from Heaven, but small and dumb,Not beckoning from the future’s promised land,But in the narrow present close at hand.They walk beside us with unsounding feet,And like those two that trode the Eastern streetAnd with their Saviour bartered thought for thought,Our eyes are holden and we know them not.1878.

1878.

A. D. 107.

(She speaks.)

One minute more of life! Enough to snatchThis flower to my bosom, and to catchThe parting glance and signal overheadFrom one who sits and waits to see me dead.One minute more! Enough to let him seeHow straight the message fell from him to me,And how, his talisman upon my breast,I’ll face the end as calmly as the rest.—Th’ impassive wall of faces seems to breakAnd shew one face aquiver for my sake * * *How different death seems, with a hand that throwsAcross the pathway of my doom a rose,How brief and paltry life, compared to thisO’ertoppling moment of supremest bliss! * * *Farewell! I feel the lions’ hungry breath,I meet your eyes * * * beloved, this is death.1878.

1878.

(Sitting to him for a Madonna.)

Knot up the filmy strands of golden hairThat veil your breast, yet leave its beauties bare;In decent ripples backward let it flow,Smooth-parted sideways from your placid brow.Unclasp the clinging necklace from your throat,And let this misty veil about you float,As round the seraphs of my visions swimFaint, roseate clouds to make their radiance dimAnd bearable to dazzled human eyes,Uplifted in a rapture of surprise.Lay off your armlets now, and cover upWith dark blue folds that shoulder’s dimpled slope;Let naught appear to woo the grosser sense,But ruling calm, and sacred innocence;Subdue the pointed twinkle of your eyeInto a level, large serenity,(Now comes the test) and let your mouth awhileBe pressed into a faint, ascetic smile,A pure reflection of the inward thought,A chastened glow from fires celestial caught.1878.

1878.

A Fragment.

In all the land was not a maidCould match her beauty white and red;No decent veil she need to wear,Deep-mantled in her royal hair,Dun ripples, shot all through and throughWith fiery gold; her eyes were blueAnd clearer than a Summer waveThat murmurs in some sunless cave,And over them her brow shone white,Like the first low star that pricks the night,And under them her mouth did redden,Like ripe red clover, honey-laden;But white as pear-bloom was her chin,An elvish dimple played therein;Her breast stirred softly up and downBeneath the folding of her gownAs if a bird were prisoned thereThat fluttered for the outer air,And round and comely was each limb,As doth a royal maid beseem.1878.

1878.

We might have loved each other after all,Have lived and learned together! Yet I doubt it;You asked, I think, too great a sacrifice,Or else, perhaps, I rate myself too dear.Whichever way the difference lies between us,Would common cares have helped to lessen it,A common interest, and a common lot?Who knows indeed? We choose our path, and thenStand looking back and sighing at our choice,And say: “Perhaps the other road had ledTo fruitful valleys dozing in the sun.”Perhaps—perhaps—but all things are perhaps,And either way there lies a doubt, you know.We’ve but one life to live, and fifty waysTo live it in, and little time to chooseThe one in fifty that will suit us best,And so the end is, that we part, and say:“We might have loved each other after all!”1878.

1878.

No human pomp suggests his name,No human pride builds up his fame,But croft and meadow every whereHis presence and his charm declare.He was an echo of the woods,A breath of vernal solitudes,An annalist of brooks and birds,Interpreter of sylvan words;He worshipt nature where he trodAnd still, through nature, worshipt God;And spotless as the flower he praisesHis name still blossoms with the daisies.

No human pomp suggests his name,No human pride builds up his fame,But croft and meadow every whereHis presence and his charm declare.

He was an echo of the woods,A breath of vernal solitudes,An annalist of brooks and birds,Interpreter of sylvan words;

He worshipt nature where he trodAnd still, through nature, worshipt God;And spotless as the flower he praisesHis name still blossoms with the daisies.

(Danced at Swanhurst, August 8th, 1878.)

Do you remember, long ago,Our Fancy-dress Quadrille?Though many a year is past since thenIt makes me joyous still,To think what fun we used to haveWhen we were young and gayAnd danced upon the Swanhurst lawn,That happy Summer day.As Shepherd and as ShepherdessWe trod the graceful round,In pinks and blues, with buckled shoes,And crooks with ribands bound;And as with joyous step we dancedWe gaily sang in timeThe foolish words and merry tuneOf some old Nursery rhyme.But often through the singing brokeA burst of laughter gay,So young were we, so glad and free,That happy Summer day!And hand in hand would linger long,As through the dance we moved,For some of us were lovers then,And some of us were loved.Ah, many a year is past since then,And fled the merry throng,And yet I hear, at times quite clear,The echo of our song;And though our days are Wintry nowI well remember stillThe happy Summer day we dancedOur Fancy-dress Quadrille!1878.

As Shepherd and as ShepherdessWe trod the graceful round,In pinks and blues, with buckled shoes,And crooks with ribands bound;And as with joyous step we dancedWe gaily sang in timeThe foolish words and merry tuneOf some old Nursery rhyme.

But often through the singing brokeA burst of laughter gay,So young were we, so glad and free,That happy Summer day!And hand in hand would linger long,As through the dance we moved,For some of us were lovers then,And some of us were loved.

Ah, many a year is past since then,And fled the merry throng,And yet I hear, at times quite clear,The echo of our song;And though our days are Wintry nowI well remember stillThe happy Summer day we dancedOur Fancy-dress Quadrille!

1878.

’Twas the old, old story told again,The story we all have heard;A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain—You know it word for word.A stolen picture—a faded rose—An evening hushed and bright;A whisper—perhaps a kiss—who knows?A handclasp, and “goodnight.”The sum of what we call “first love,”That dreamflower rare and white,That puts its magic blossom forthAnd dies in a single night.1878.

’Twas the old, old story told again,The story we all have heard;A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain—You know it word for word.

A stolen picture—a faded rose—An evening hushed and bright;A whisper—perhaps a kiss—who knows?A handclasp, and “goodnight.”

The sum of what we call “first love,”That dreamflower rare and white,That puts its magic blossom forthAnd dies in a single night.

1878.

When our eyes grow dim and our hair turns greyAnd we sit by the fire together,’Twill seem strange to talk in a shivering wayOf our Summertime’s rosy weather;When our eyes were bright, and our tresses smooth,And the blood in our veins leapt red,In the golden dawn of our long lost youth,With the promise of life ahead.Shall we talk with smiles or with sighs that dayOf the years that are dead and gone,Of the cares and the joys that have passed awayLike dewdrops beneath the sun?Nay, perchance we’ll see but the sunny sideOf the vision, in looking back,And the trace of joys that are past may abide,Where our sorrow have left no track;And perhaps both the joys and the cares may seemIn the light of that later day,Like the phantom shapes of some beautiful dreamThat has long ago passed away.But whate’er beside we may lose or holdFrom the hoards of the golden past,May the friends we loved in the days of oldTo our hearts and thoughts cling fast,And before the days come that are coming soon,And whose motto is “I remember,”God grant us one vision of love and JuneTo brighten our life’s December.October 7th, 1878.

When our eyes grow dim and our hair turns greyAnd we sit by the fire together,’Twill seem strange to talk in a shivering wayOf our Summertime’s rosy weather;

When our eyes were bright, and our tresses smooth,And the blood in our veins leapt red,In the golden dawn of our long lost youth,With the promise of life ahead.

Shall we talk with smiles or with sighs that dayOf the years that are dead and gone,Of the cares and the joys that have passed awayLike dewdrops beneath the sun?

Nay, perchance we’ll see but the sunny sideOf the vision, in looking back,And the trace of joys that are past may abide,Where our sorrow have left no track;

And perhaps both the joys and the cares may seemIn the light of that later day,Like the phantom shapes of some beautiful dreamThat has long ago passed away.

But whate’er beside we may lose or holdFrom the hoards of the golden past,May the friends we loved in the days of oldTo our hearts and thoughts cling fast,

And before the days come that are coming soon,And whose motto is “I remember,”God grant us one vision of love and JuneTo brighten our life’s December.

October 7th, 1878.

A cold grey sea, a cold grey skyAnd leafless swaying boughs,A wind that wanders sadly by,And moans about the house.And in my lonely heart a cryFor days that went before;For joys that fly, and hopes that die,And the past that comes no more.

A cold grey sea, a cold grey skyAnd leafless swaying boughs,A wind that wanders sadly by,And moans about the house.

And in my lonely heart a cryFor days that went before;For joys that fly, and hopes that die,And the past that comes no more.

For a look from her eyes, for a smile of her mouthAny man might well give the best years of his youth;For the touch of her hand, for the warmth of her kissMight well barter his chances of infinite bliss;For her step is like sunlight that plays on the seaAnd her bosom is snowy as snowy can be,And her hair is a mantle inwoven with goldSuch as Queens might have worn in the legends of old;And her chin oh so white, and her cheek oh so red,They might well drive a man who should look at them mad;But beneath the bright breast where her heart ought to be,What is there? Why a trap to catch fools, sir, like me!October, 1878.

For her step is like sunlight that plays on the seaAnd her bosom is snowy as snowy can be,And her hair is a mantle inwoven with goldSuch as Queens might have worn in the legends of old;

And her chin oh so white, and her cheek oh so red,They might well drive a man who should look at them mad;But beneath the bright breast where her heart ought to be,What is there? Why a trap to catch fools, sir, like me!

October, 1878.

Daisies, does he love me?Daisies, tell me true.“Loves me * * * does not love me” * * *That will never do!Why, you know, you daisies,Whatever you may say,He stole that knot of ribandI wore the other day.Daisies, one more trial;Let your petals fall.“Loves me * * * does not love me * * *Loves me,” after all!Thank you, darling daisies,And if it ends that wayI’ll wear you in a garlandUpon my wedding day.1878.

Daisies, one more trial;Let your petals fall.“Loves me * * * does not love me * * *Loves me,” after all!Thank you, darling daisies,And if it ends that wayI’ll wear you in a garlandUpon my wedding day.

1878.

(On being asked for some verses.)

I love the silver dawn of nightThat melts the dark away;The ecstacy of pallid lightThat bathes the ended day;When leaf by leaf the slumbrous treesBegin to talk anew;And that sweet almoner, the breeze,Fills every cup with dew;When on the fevered brow of toilEve lays a soothing palm,And whispers softly to the soul:“This hour was made for calm.”1876.

I love the silver dawn of nightThat melts the dark away;The ecstacy of pallid lightThat bathes the ended day;

When leaf by leaf the slumbrous treesBegin to talk anew;And that sweet almoner, the breeze,Fills every cup with dew;

When on the fevered brow of toilEve lays a soothing palm,And whispers softly to the soul:“This hour was made for calm.”

1876.

To F. S. W.

Rosy, and fair, and fragrant,Your vassals, the flowers, come,Bearing a welcome to usFrom the heart of your sunlit home;Delicate garlands, wreathingWith brightness these dreary hours;Red lips and white lips, breathingOf you, our Lady of Flowers!Violets, blue as your eyes areAnd roses, as soft as your cheek,—Daphne, sweet as your words are,—Primroses pallid and meek;Feathery, waving fern-plumes,And blossoms from Summer bowers,Each one bearing a messageFrom you, our Lady of Flowers!Giver of brightness and beauty,And Queen of this fragrant throng,How shall we thank you or praise youBut feebly in this poor song?We, whom you crown with blossoms,Whom richly your kindness dowers,We must be silent and love you,—Love you, our Lady of Flowers!November 25, 1878.

Violets, blue as your eyes areAnd roses, as soft as your cheek,—Daphne, sweet as your words are,—Primroses pallid and meek;Feathery, waving fern-plumes,And blossoms from Summer bowers,Each one bearing a messageFrom you, our Lady of Flowers!

Giver of brightness and beauty,And Queen of this fragrant throng,How shall we thank you or praise youBut feebly in this poor song?We, whom you crown with blossoms,Whom richly your kindness dowers,We must be silent and love you,—Love you, our Lady of Flowers!

November 25, 1878.

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