To-day I had a burial of my dead.There was no shroud, no coffin, and no pall,No prayers were uttered and no tears were shed—I only turned a picture to the wall.
A picture that had hung within my roomFor years and years; a relic of my youth.It kept the rose of love in constant bloomTo see those eyes of earnestness and truth.
At hours wherein no other dared intrude,I had drawn comfort from its smiling grace.Silent companion of my solitude,My soul held sweet communion with that face.
I lived again the dream so bright, so brief,Though wakened as we all are by some Fate;This picture gave me infinite relief,And did not leave me wholly desolate.
To-day I saw an item, quite by chance,That robbed me of my pitiful poor dole:A marriage notice fell beneath my glance,And I became a lonely widowed soul.
With drooping eyes, and cheeks a burning flame,I turned the picture to the blank wall’s gloom.My very heart had died in me of shame,If I had left it smiling in my room.
Another woman’s husband. So, my friend,My comfort, my sole relic of the past,I bury thee, and, lonely, seek the end.Swift age has swept my youth from me at last.
O Beautiful white Angels! who controlThe inner workings of each poet soul,Thou who hast touched my mind with tender gracesCome near to me that I may see thy faces.
Me, didst thou bless before I came to earth;Me, hast thou kissed, and dowered at my birth,With such a wealth of sweet imaginings,That, even in sleep, my dreaming fancy sings.
Sometimes when seeing snow-white clouds at noon,Or watching silver shadows from the moon,Within my soul has stirred a joy like fear,As if some kindred spirit lingered near.
Come closer, Angels! thou whose haloed wingsDo gild for me the meanest ways and things,With beauty borrowed from the Infinite—Stand forth, let me behold thee in the light.
O thought supreme! O death! O life! unknownI shall not solve thy mystery alone.The angels who have kissed me at my birthShall take again my soul when done with earth,And as we soar through vast, star-lighted spaces,At last, at last I shall behold their faces.
When the long day leans to the twilight,When the Evening star climbs to the moon,With a heart that is silently breaking,I sit in the gloaming and croon.I croon a low song for my darling,My wee one, my baby, my own;Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet,Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.
Alone with no arms to enfold her,Alone with no pillowing breast,Alone with no hand on her cradle,To rock her to soundlier rest.But each day in the hush of the twilight,Is silenced my broken heart’s cry;And I sit where I sat with my darling,And sing her the old lullaby.
Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking,The sorrow that makes the days long;As I sit in the twilight there rocking,And singing that lullaby song.But I think my wee darling rests betterAs the night shadows lengthen, and creepAcross her low bed, in the churchyard,If her mother’s voice sings her to sleep.And so with a heart that is breakingI sing the old ‘Lullaby dear’That hushed her so oft into slumber—O baby—my own—do you hear?
When the beautiful mountain ash is turning—As lovely a sight as the eyes desire;When the leaves of the sumac bush are burning,Like the steady flame of a winter fire;When the weeds by the roadside all grow golden,When maples are glowing and asters gleam,It is then that the new is changed to the olden,And back to my heart comes the past like a dream.
Like a mirage I see the blue haze o’er me,The City of Youth that I left behind.Oh! whitely its turrets are gleaming before me,And out of the window lean faces kind.And I hear the echo of jubilant voices;There are cheeks of beauty and eyes of truth:And every pulse in my heart rejoices—There’s no other place like the City of Youth.
And lo! the City is full of splendour,And a voice in my soul breaks into song.Yes, a passionate love, as fair as tender,Creeps out of the grave where it slept so long.As the strings of a harp by winds are shaken,To endless music my heart is stirred,When my name is breathed and my hand is taken,Though I cannot utter a single word.
But with souls that are full of the beautiful weather,And the perfect peace that has no name,Under the autumn skies togetherWe stray, by the sumacs all aflame.And the forest flushes to fuller glory:Brighter glow asters and golden rod,As eye unto eye tells the old, old story,And the sunlight seems like the smile of God.
Alone I stand and sorrowful hearted;The dead leaves fall in the chilly wind.The mirage is fled, and the glory departed,And the City of Youth is far behind.
I am all alone in the house to-night;They would not have gone awayHad they known of the terrible, bloodless fightI have held with my heart to-day.With the old sweet love and the old fierce painI have battled hour by hour;But the fates have willed that the strife is vain.Alone in the hour my thoughts have reign,And I yield myself to their power.
Yield myself to the old time charmOf a dream of vanished bliss,The thrill of a voice, and the fold of an arm,And a red lip’s lingering kiss.It all comes back like a flowing tide;That brief, but beautiful day.Though it oft is checked by the dam of pride,Till the waters flow back to the other side,To-night it has broken away.
I gave you all that I had to give,O love, the lavish whole.And you threw it away, and now I liveA starved and beggared soul.And I feed on crumbs that memory throwsFrom her table over-filled,And I lay awake when others repose,And slake my thirst when no one knows,With the wine that she has spilled.
I go my way and I do my partIn the world’s great scene of strife,But I do it all with an empty heart,Dead to the best of life.And ofttimes weary and tempest tossed,When I am not ruled by pride,I wish ere the die was throne and lost,Ere I played for love without counting the cost,That I, like my heart, had died.
I opened a long closed drawer to-day,And among the souvenirs stored awayWere the faded leaves of an old bouquet.
Those faded leaves were as white as snow,With a background of green, to make them show,When you gave them to me long years ago.
They carried me back in a flash of lightTo a perfumed, perfect summer night,And a rider who came on a steed of white.
I can see it all—how you rode downLike a knight of old, from the dusty town,With a passionate glow in your eyes of brown.
Again I stand by the garden gate,While the golden sun slips low, and waitAnd watch your coming, my love, my fate.
Young and handsome and debonairYou leap to my side in the garden there,And I take your flowers, and call them fair.
Out of the west the glory dies,As we stand under the sunset skies,With love in our hearts, and love in our eyes.
Love too tender and love too greatTo die with death, or to yield to fate;But your restless steed tells the hour is late.
You mount him again and you ride awayInto the west that is growing gray.Oh! turn the key on that dear bouquet.
It is dry and faded and I am old:And the hand that gave it is green with mould,And the winter of life is cold—so cold.
Oh! but the bride was lovely,Oh! but the scene was bright,And why was the bridegroom’s face as paleAs his lady’s robe of white?
Did you not see beside himA guest unasked, unbid?Who came up the aisle with silent feetAnd gazed at him? he did!
He saw her eyes upon him,He felt her icy breath;And under the bride’s warm clinging handThere crept the touch of death.
And above the low responsesThere fell upon his earA voice forbidding the nuptial banns;But no one else could hear.
And when the ring was given,And when the prayer was said,He knew, as he led his bride away,That he was not truly wed.
And while they sat at the banquet,And mirth flowed like the wine,A dead girl’s voice hissed in his ear,‘You are not hers, but mine.’
Oh! never beside his hearthstone,And never in any place,Shall he be free from the haunting thoughtOf that accusing face.
In the gruesome night and the wintry weather,I watched two dear friends die,And I buried them both in one grave together.Oh! who is so sad as I?For the old love, and the old year,They both have passed away;And I never can find the old cheerCome what will or may.
I heard the bell in the tall church steepleClang out a joyful strain.And I thought, ‘Of all the great world’s people,I have the bitterest pain.’For the old year was a good year,And the old love was sweet;And how could my heart hold any cheerWhen both lay dead at my feet.
Life may smile and the skies may brighten,Winter will pass with its snows;Grief will wane and the burden lighten—And June will come with the rose.But it cannot bring the old cheerTo fill my empty breast;For the old year was the one year,And the old love was best.