A Minor Poet, and Other Verse

ALL things I can endure, save one.
The bare, blank room where is no sun;
The parcelled hours; the pallet hard;
The dreary faces here within;
The outer women’s cold regard;
The Pastor’s iterated “sin”;—
These things could I endure, and count
No overstrain’d, unjust amount;
No undue payment for such bliss—
Yea, all things bear, save only this:
That you, who knew what thing would be,
Have wrought this evil unto me.
It is so strange to think on still—
That you, that you should do me ill!
Not as one ignorant or blind,
But seeing clearly in your mind
How this must be which now has been,
Nothing aghast at what was seen.
Now that the tale is told and done,
It is so strange to think upon.

You were so tender with me, too!
One summer’s night a cold blast blew,
Closer about my throat you drew
The half-slipt shawl of dusky blue.
And once my hand, on a summer’s morn,
I stretched to pluck a rose; a thorn
Struck through the flesh and made it bleed
(A little drop of blood indeed!)
Pale grew your cheek; you stoopt and bound
Your handkerchief about the wound;
Your voice came with a broken sound;
With the deep breath your breast was riven;
I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven?

How strange, that you should work my woe!
How strange! I wonder, do you know
How gladly, gladly I had died
(And life was very sweet that tide)
To save you from the least, light ill?
How gladly I had borne your pain.
With one great pulse we seem’d to thrill,—
Nay, but we thrill’d with pulses twain.

Even if one had told me this,
“A poison lurks within your kiss,
Gall that shall turn to night his day:”
Thereon I straight had turned away—
Ay, tho’ my heart had crack’d with pain—And
never kiss’d your lips again.

At night, or when the daylight nears,
I hear the other women weep;
My own heart’s anguish lies too deep
For the soft rain and pain of tears.
I think my heart has turn’d to stone,
A dull, dead weight that hurts my breast;
Here, on my pallet-bed alone,
I keep apart from all the rest.
Wide-eyed I lie upon my bed,
I often cannot sleep all night;
The future and the past are dead,
There is no thought can bring delight.
All night I lie and think and think;
If my heart were not made of stone,
But flesh and blood, it needs must shrink
Before such thoughts. Was ever known
A woman with a heart of stone?

The doctor says that I shall die.
It may be so, yet what care I?
Endless reposing from the strife?
Death do I trust no more than life.
For one thing is like one arrayed,
And there is neither false nor true;
But in a hideous masquerade
All things dance on, the ages through.
And good is evil, evil good;
Nothing is known or understood
Save only Pain. I have no faith
In God or Devil, Life or Death.

The doctor says that I shall die.
You, that I knew in days gone by,
I fain would see your face once more,
Con well its features o’er and o’er;
And touch your hand and feel your kiss,
Look in your eyes and tell you this:
That all is done, that I am free;
That you, through all eternity,
Have neither part nor lot in me.

Christopher Found.

I.

AT last; so this is you, my dear!
How should I guess to find you here?
So long, so long, I sought in vain
In many cities, many lands,
With straining eyes and groping hands;
The people marvelled at my pain.
They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad;
What ails her, we should like to know,
That she should be so wan and sad,
And silent through the revels go?”
They clacked with such a sorry stir!
Was I to tell? were they to know
That I had lost you, Christopher?
Will you forgive me for one thing?
Whiles, when a stranger came my way,
My heart would beat and I would say:
“Here’s Christopher!”—then lingering
With longer gaze, would turn away
Cold, sick at heart. My dear, I know
You will forgive me for this thing.
It is so very long ago
Since I have seen your face—till now;
Now that I see it—lip and brow,
Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear;
Last time was long ago; I know
This thing you will forgive me, dear.

II.

There is no Heaven—this is the best;
O hold me closer to your breast;
Let your face lean upon my face,
That there no longer shall be space
Between our lips, between our eyes.
I feel your bosom’s fall and rise.
O hold me near and yet more near;
Ah sweet; I wonder do you know
How lone and cold, how sad and drear,
Was I a little while ago;
Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir;
But I have found you, Christopher.

III.

If only you had come before!
(This is the thing I most deplore)
A seemlier woman you had found,
More calm, by courtesies more bound,
Less quick to greet you, more subdued
Of appetite; of slower mood.
But ah! you come so late, so late!
This time of day I can’t pretend
With slight, sweet things to satiate
The hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend,
I cannot blush and turn and tremble,
Wax loth as younger maidens do.
Ah, Christopher, with you, with you,
You would not wish me to dissemble?

IV.

So long have all the days been meagre,
With empty platter, empty cup,
No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,
That if I crave—is it over-eager,
The deepest draught, the fullest measure,
The beaker to the brim poured up?

V.

Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above,
Says, and would make the matter clear,
That love divided is larger love;—
We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear.
For you never wrote a verse, you see;
And I—my verse is not fair nor new.
Till the world be dead, you shall love but me,
Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.

EPILOGUE.

Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did run
Their purport. Idly seeking in the chest
(You see it yonder), I had found them there:
Some blotted sheets of paper in a case,
With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.”
Twice on the writing there was scored the date
Of ten years back; and where the words had end
Was left a space, a dash, a half-writ word,
As tho’ the writer minded, presently
The matter to pursue.
I questioned her,
That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine,
Who, nothing loth, made answer.
There had been
Another lodger ere I had the rooms,
Three months gone by—a woman.
“Young, sir? No.
Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day!
A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends;
Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers.
Short in her temper—eyes would flash and flame
At times, till I was frightened. Paid her rent
Most regular, like a lady.
Ten years back,
They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years back
The lady had a lover. Even then
She must have been no chicken.
Three months since
She died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just.
I did my best to tend her, yet indeed
It’s bad for trade to have a lodger die.
Her brother came, a week before she died:
Buried her, took her things, threw in the fire
The littered heaps of paper.
Yes, the sheets,
They must have been forgotten in the chest;—
I never knew her name was Adelaide.”

A Dirge.

“Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurig
Doch lustig leuchtet der Mai.”

THERE’S May amid the meadows,
There’s May amid the trees;
Her May-time note the cuckoo
Sends forth upon the breeze.

Above the rippling river
May swallows skim and dart;
November and December
Keep watch within my heart.

The spring breathes in the breezes,
The woods with wood-notes ring,
And all the budding hedgerows
Are fragrant of the spring.

In secret, silent places
The live green things upstart;
Ice-bound, ice-crown’d dwells winter
For ever in my heart.

Upon the bridge I linger,
Near where the lime-trees grow;
Above, swart birds are circling,
Beneath, the stream runs slow.

A stripling and a maiden
Come wand’ring up the way;
His eyes are glad with springtime,
Her face is fair with May.

Of warmth and sun and sweetness
All nature takes a part;
The ice of all the ages
Weighs down upon my heart.

The Sick Man and the Nightingale.

(FROM LENAU.)

SO late, and yet a nightingale?
Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale,
The summer fields are ripening,
And yet a sound of spring?

O tell me, didst thou come to hear,
Sweet Spring, that I should die this year;
And call’st across from the far shore
To me one greeting more?

To Death.

(FROM LENAU.)

IF within my heart there’s mould,
If the flame of Poesy
And the flame of Love grow cold,
Slay my body utterly.

Swiftly, pause not nor delay;
Let not my life’s field be spread
With the ash of feelings dead,
Let thy singer soar away.

A June-Tide Echo.

(AFTER A RICHTER CONCERT.)

IN the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,
And the keen blast blew through the city drear,
When delight had fled from the night and the day,
My chill heart whispered, “June will be here!

“June with its roses a-sway in the sun,
Its glory of green on mead and tree.”
Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,
June-tide, and never a joy for me!

Is it so much of the gods that I pray?
Sure craved man never so slight a boon!
To be glad and glad in my heart one day—
One perfect day of the perfect June.

Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;
Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.
This is the boon of the gods that I crave—
To be glad, as the music and night were fair.

For once, for one fleeting hour, to hold
The fair shape the music that rose and fell
Revealed and concealed like a veiling fold;
To catch for an instant the sweet June spell.

For once, for one hour, to catch and keep
The sweet June secret that mocks my heart;
Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep,
Now hither and thither with start and dart.

Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years,
The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain;
The long days of labour, the nights of tears—
No more these things would I hold in vain.

I would hold my life as a thing of worth;
Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing.
Lo, June in her fairness is on the earth,
And never a joy does the niggard bring.

To Lallie.

(OUTSIDE THE BRITISH MUSEUM.)

UP those Museum steps you came,
And straightway all my blood was flame,
O Lallie, Lallie!

The world (I had been feeling low)
In one short moment’s space did grow
A happy valley.

There was a friend, my friend, with you;
A meagre dame, in peacock blue
Apparelled quaintly:

This poet-heart went pit-a-pat;
I bowed and smiled and raised my hat;
You nodded—faintly.

My heart was full as full could be;
You had not got a word for me,
Not one short greeting;

That nonchalant small nod you gave
(The tyrant’s motion to the slave)
Sole mark’d our meeting.

Is it so long? Do you forget
That first and last time that we met?
The time was summer;

The trees were green; the sky was blue;
Our host presented me to you—
A tardy comer.

You look’d demure, but when you spoke
You made a little, funny joke,
Yet half pathetic.

Your gown was grey, I recollect,
I think you patronized the sect
They call “æsthetic.”

I brought you strawberries and cream,
I plied you long about a stream
With duckweed laden;

We solemnly discussed the—heat.
I found you shy and very sweet,
A rosebud maiden.

Ah me, to-day! You passed inside
To where the marble gods abide:
Hermes, Apollo,

Sweet Aphrodite, Pan; and where,
For aye reclined, a headless fair
Beats all fairs hollow.

And I, I went upon my way,
Well—rather sadder, let us say;
The world looked flatter.

I had been sad enough before,
A little less, a little more,
What does it matter?

In a Minor Key.

(AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE.)

THAT was love that I had before,
Years ago, when my heart was young;
Ev’ry smile was a gem you wore,
Ev’ry word was a sweet song sung.

You came—all my pulses burn’d and beat.
(O sweet wild throbs of an early day!)
You went—with the last dear sound of your feet
The light wax’d dim and the place grew grey.

And I us’d to pace with a stealthy tread
By a certain house which is under a hill;
A cottage stands near, wall’d white, roof’d red—
Tall trees grow thick—I can see it still!

How I us’d to watch with a hope that was fear
For the least swift glimpse of your gown’s dear fold!
(You wore blue gowns in those days, my dear—
One light for summer, one dark for cold.)

Tears and verses I shed for you in show’rs;
I would have staked my soul for a kiss;
Tribute daily I brought you of flow’rs,
Rose, lily, your favourite eucharis.

There came a day we were doomed to part;
There’s a queer, small gate at the foot of a slope:
We parted there—and I thought my heart
Had parted for ever from love and hope.
* * * * *
Is it love that I have to-day?
Love, that bloom’d early, has it bloom’d late
For me, that, clothed in my spirit’s grey,
Sit in the stillness and stare at Fate?

Song nor sonnet for you I’ve penned,
Nor passionate paced by your home’s wide wall;
I have brought you never a flow’r, my friend,
Never a tear for your sake let fall.

And yet—and yet—ah, who understands?
We men and women are complex things!
A hundred tunes Fate’s inexorable hands
May play on the sensitive soul-strings.

Webs of strange patterns we weave (each owns)
From colour and sound; and like unto these,
Soul has its tones and its semitones,
Mind has its major and minor keys.

Your face (men pass it without a word)
It haunts my dreams like an odd, sweet strain;
When your name is spoken my soul is stirr’d
In its deepest depths with a dull, dim pain.

I paced, in the damp grey mist, last night
In the streets (an hour) to see you pass:
Yet I do not think that I love you—quite;
What’s felt so finely ’twere coarse to class.

And yet—and yet—I scarce can tell why
(As I said, we are riddles and hard to read),
If the world went ill with you, and I
Could help with a hidden hand your need;

But, ere I could reach you where you lay,
Must strength and substance and honour spend;
Journey long journeys by night and day—
Somehow, I think I should come, my friend!