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, numberful
Stars 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?
I, in our season of love as a sun to her:
She, all its heaven of silvery, numberful
Stars 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?
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 dissembling
Flame 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?
Dreading to lose her.—A moth, the dissembling
Flame 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 tenderly
Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious;—
Wandered unheeding my steps in the odious
Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry
Violet curve of thy star falling fiery—
So was I lost in night! thus am undone!
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 tenderly
Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious;—
Wandered unheeding my steps in the odious
Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry
Violet 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 her
Here in the soil of my soul? their variety
Endless—and ever she answered with piety.
See! it has come to this—all the tale's suavity
At 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.
Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her
Here in the soil of my soul? their variety
Endless—and ever she answered with piety.
See! it has come to this—all the tale's suavity
At 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.
7
After the last meeting; the day following.
I seem to see her still; to see
That dim blue room. Her perfume comes
From lavender folds draped dreamily—
One blossom of brocaded blooms—
Some stuff of orient looms.
That dim blue room. Her perfume comes
From lavender folds draped dreamily—
One blossom of brocaded blooms—
Some stuff of orient looms.
I seem to hear her speak; and back
Where lies the sun on books and piles
Of porcelain and bric-a-brac,
A tall clock ticks above the tiles,
Where Love's framed profile smiles.
Where lies the sun on books and piles
Of 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 shone
In her sad eyes that seemed to lean
On something far, unseen.
I suffer too for what has been—
For what must be."—A wild ache shone
In her sad eyes that seemed to lean
On something far, unseen.
And as in sleep my own self seems
Outside my suffering self.—I flush
'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,
And wait as silent as that hush
Of lilac light and plush.
Outside my suffering self.—I flush
'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,
And wait as silent as that hush
Of lilac light and plush.
Smiling, but suffering, I feel,
Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,
In those pale temples, thoughts like steel
Pierce burningly.—I had gone mad
Had I once deemed her glad.—
Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,
In those pale temples, thoughts like steel
Pierce burningly.—I had gone mad
Had I once deemed her glad.—
Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn
To look beyond the present far
For some faint future hope, I turn—
Above her garden, day's fierce star,
Vermilion at the window bar,
To look beyond the present far
For 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 one
Rich day she'd said she'd be my wife
Set heart and brain at strife.
An omen of our future life.—
And then the memory of one
Rich day she'd said she'd be my wife
Set heart and brain at strife.
Again amid the heavy hues,
Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold
Of flowers there, I stood 'mid dews
With her; deep in her garden old,
While sunset fires uprolled.
Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold
Of flowers there, I stood 'mid dews
With her; deep in her garden old,
While sunset fires uprolled.
And now.... It can not be! and yet
To feel 'tis so!—In heart and brain
To know 'tis so!—while warm and wet
I seem to smell those scents again,
Verbena-scents and rain.
To feel 'tis so!—In heart and brain
To know 'tis so!—while warm and wet
I seem to smell those scents again,
Verbena-scents and rain.
I turn, in hope she'll bid me stay.
Again her cameo beauty mark
Set in that smile.—She turns away.
No word of love! not even a spark
Of hope to cheer the dark!
Again her cameo beauty mark
Set in that smile.—She turns away.
No word of love! not even a spark
Of hope to cheer the dark!
That sepia sketch—conceive it so—
A jaunty head with mouth and eyes
Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau,
Silk-masked, unmasking—it denies
The look we half surmise,
A jaunty head with mouth and eyes
Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau,
Silk-masked, unmasking—it denies
The look we half surmise,
We know is there. 'Tis thus we read
The true beneath the false; perceive
The smile that hides the ache.—Indeed!
Whose soul unmasks?... Not mine!—I grieve,—
Oh God!—but laugh and leave....
The true beneath the false; perceive
The smile that hides the ache.—Indeed!
Whose soul unmasks?... Not mine!—I grieve,—
Oh God!—but laugh and leave....
8
He walks aimlessly on.
Beyond those twisted apple-trees,
That partly hide the old brick-barn,
Its tattered arms and tattered knees
A scare-crow tosses to the breeze
Among the shocks of corn.
That partly hide the old brick-barn,
Its tattered arms and tattered knees
A scare-crow tosses to the breeze
Among the shocks of corn.
My heart is gray as is the day,
In which the rain-wind drearily
Makes all the sounding branches sway,
And in the hollows far away
The dry leaves rustle wearily.
In which the rain-wind drearily
Makes all the sounding branches sway,
And in the hollows far away
The dry leaves rustle wearily.
And soon we'll hear the far wild-geese
Honk in frost-bitten heavens under
Arcturus; when my walks must cease,
And by the fireside's log-heaped peace
I'll sit and nod and ponder.—
Honk in frost-bitten heavens under
Arcturus; when my walks must cease,
And by the fireside's log-heaped peace
I'll sit and nod and ponder.—
When every fall of this loud creek
Is architectured ice; and hinted
Brown acres of yon corn stretch bleak,
White-sculptured with the snows, that streak
The hillsides bitter-tinted,
Is architectured ice; and hinted
Brown acres of yon corn stretch bleak,
White-sculptured with the snows, that streak
The hillsides bitter-tinted,
I'll sit and dream of that glad morn
We 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.
We 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 among
The lily-pads that dot the river;
And reach her hat the grape-vine long
Strikes in the stream; we'll sing that song,
And then.... I'll wake and shiver.
The lily-pads that dot the river;
And reach her hat the grape-vine long
Strikes in the stream; we'll sing that song,
And then.... I'll wake and shiver.
Why is it that my mind reverts
To that sweet past? while full of parting
The present is; so full of hurts
And heartache, that what it asserts
Adds only to the smarting.
To that sweet past? while full of parting
The present is; so full of hurts
And heartache, that what it asserts
Adds only to the smarting.
How often shall I sit and think
Of that sweet past! through lowered lashes
What-might-have-been trace link by link;
Then watch it gradually sink
And crumble into ashes.
Of that sweet past! through lowered lashes
What-might-have-been trace link by link;
Then watch it gradually sink
And crumble into ashes.
Outside I'll hear the sad wind weep
Like some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken;
Then shuddering to bed shall creep
And lie awake, or haply sleep
A sleep by visions shaken.
Like some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken;
Then shuddering to bed shall creep
And lie awake, or haply sleep
A sleep by visions shaken.
Dreams of the past that paint and draw
The 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 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.
9
He compares the present day with a past one.
The sun a splintered splendor was
In trees, whose waving branches blurred
Its disc, that day we went together,
'Mid wild-bee hum and whirring buzz
Of insects, through the fields that purred
With Summer in the perfect weather.
In trees, whose waving branches blurred
Its disc, that day we went together,
'Mid wild-bee hum and whirring buzz
Of insects, through the fields that purred
With Summer in the perfect weather.
So sweet it was to look and lean
To her young face and feel the light
Of eyes that met my own unsaddened!
Her laugh, that left lips more serene;
Her speech, that blossomed like the white
Life-everlasting there and gladdened.
To her young face and feel the light
Of eyes that met my own unsaddened!
Her laugh, that left lips more serene;
Her speech, that blossomed like the white
Life-everlasting there and gladdened.
Maturing Summer! you were fraught
With more of beauty then than now
Parades the pageant of September:
Where what-is-now contrasts in thought
With what-was-once, that bloom and bough
Can only help me to remember.
With more of beauty then than now
Parades the pageant of September:
Where what-is-now contrasts in thought
With what-was-once, that bloom and bough
Can only help me to remember.
10
He pauses before a deserted house by the roadside.
Through iron-weeds and roses
And ancient beech and oak,
Old porches it discloses
Above the weeds and roses,
The drizzling raindrops soak.
And ancient beech and oak,
Old porches it discloses
Above the weeds and roses,
The drizzling raindrops soak.
Neglected walks a-tangle
With dodder-strangled grass;
And every mildewed angle
Heaped with dead leaves that spangle
The paths that round it pass.
With dodder-strangled grass;
And every mildewed angle
Heaped with dead leaves that spangle
The paths that round it pass.
The creatures there that bury
And hide within its rooms,
And spidered closets—very
Dim with gray webs—will hurry
Out when the twilight glooms.
And hide within its rooms,
And spidered closets—very
Dim with gray webs—will hurry
Out when the twilight glooms.
Owls roost in room and basement;
Bats haunt its hearth and porch,
And through some paneless casement
Flit, in the moon's enlacement,
Or firefly's twinkling torch.
Bats haunt its hearth and porch,
And through some paneless casement
Flit, 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?
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 startle
Some bird that mopes within;
Some owl above its portal,
That stares upon the mortal
As on a thing of sin.
Some bird that mopes within;
Some owl above its portal,
That stares upon the mortal
As on a thing of sin.
The rutty road winds by it
This side the dusty toll.—
Why do I stop to eye it?
My heart can not deny it—
The house is like my soul.
This side the dusty toll.—
Why do I stop to eye it?
My heart can not deny it—
The house is like my soul.
11
He proceeds on his way.
I bear a burden—look not therein!
Naught will you find but sorrow and sin;
Sorrow and sin that wend with me
Wherever I go. And misery,
A gaunt companion, a wretched bride,
Goes always with me, side by side.
Naught will you find but sorrow and sin;
Sorrow and sin that wend with me
Wherever 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 worth
The little pleasure that we gain
For all our sorrow and our pain?
The love, to which we gave our best,
That turns a mockery and a jest?
I ask my soul now—is life worth
The little pleasure that we gain
For all our sorrow and our pain?
The love, to which we gave our best,
That turns a mockery and a jest?
12
Among the twilight fields.
The things we love, the loveliest things we cherish,
Pass from us soonest, vanish utterly.
Dust are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perish
Ere we can say they be!
Pass from us soonest, vanish utterly.
Dust are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perish
Ere we can say they 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.
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.
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.
Or destiny, that nothing may retard,
That to some end, above life's empty level,
Perhaps withholds reward.
PART IV
LATE AUTUMN
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.
Should we not envy such?
They are Earth's happiest,
God-loved and favored much!—
They who die young are blest.
1
Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.
'Though the dog-tooth violet come
With April showers,
And the wild-bees' music hum
About the flowers,
We shall never wend as when
Love laughed leading us from men
Over violet vale and glen,
Where the bob-white piped for hours,
And we heard the rain-crow's drum.
With April showers,
And the wild-bees' music hum
About the flowers,
We shall never wend as when
Love laughed leading us from men
Over violet vale and glen,
Where the bob-white piped for hours,
And we heard the rain-crow's drum.
2
She gazes out upon the dying garden.
There rank death clutches at the flowers
And 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?
And 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 falls
Upon the cold toadstool.—
Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps—
Or is it tears of one who weeps?
Like feeble feet once beautiful,
From mildewed walks to mildewed walls,
Down which the oozing moisture falls
Upon 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 moon
Slips through the trees,—pale as a face
Of 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?
Slips through the trees,—pale as a face
Of 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?
3
She muses upon the past.
When in her cloudy chiton,
Spring freed the frozen rills,
And walked in rainbowed light on
The 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.
Spring freed the frozen rills,
And walked in rainbowed light on
The 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 sickle
Stuck in her sheaf of gleams,
And let the honey trickle
From out the beehives' seams;
Within the violet-blotted
Sweet book to us alloted,—
Whose lines are starry dotted,—
Love read us still his dreams.
Stuck in her sheaf of gleams,
And let the honey trickle
From out the beehives' seams;
Within the violet-blotted
Sweet 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.
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 forever
We part—once more, then never—
Once more before we sever
Must I his face behold!
The tyrant hoar and old,
With death and hunger mated,
Who counts his crimes like gold.—
Once more before forever
We part—once more, then never—
Once more before we sever
Must I his face behold!
4
She takes up a book and reads.
What little things are those
That hold our happiness!
A smile, a glance, a rose
Dropped from her hair or dress;
A word, a look, a touch,—
These are so much, so much.
That hold our happiness!
A smile, a glance, a rose
Dropped 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 dreams
More than all history says,
Or romance of old days.
A sunset's gold that gleams;
A spray of migonette,
Will fill the soul with dreams
More than all history says,
Or romance of old days.
5
She lays down the book.
How true! how true!—but words are weak
In sympathy they give the soul,
To music—music, that can speak
All the heart's pain and dole;
Still making us remember most
The love we've lost, the love we've lost.
In sympathy they give the soul,
To music—music, that can speak
All the heart's pain and dole;
Still making us remember most
The love we've lost, the love we've lost.
So weary am I, and so fain
To see his face, to feel his kiss
Thrill rapture through my soul again,
There is no hell like this.—
Ah, God! my God, were it not best
To give me rest, to give me rest?
To see his face, to feel his kiss
Thrill rapture through my soul again,
There is no hell like this.—
Ah, God! my God, were it not best
To give me rest, to give me rest?
6
She writes to him to come to her.
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 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 arid
That once went singing on;
The flowers once that varied
Its banks are dead and gone:
Where these were once are thorns and thirst—
The place is curst.
That once went singing on;
The flowers once that varied
Its 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 only
One last sad parting word:
For one last word before the pall
Falls over all.
Forgive what you have heard.—
Come to me; if for only
One last sad parting word:
For one last word before the pall
Falls over all.
The day and hour are suited
For what I'd say to you
Of love that I uprooted—
But I have suffered too!
Come to me; I would say good-by
Before I die.
For what I'd say to you
Of love that I uprooted—
But I have suffered too!
Come to me; I would say good-by
Before I die.
7
The wind rises; the trees are agitated.
Woods, that beat the wind with frantic
Gestures and drop darkly 'round
Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic
Wildly on the rustling ground!
Gestures and drop darkly 'round
Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic
Wildly on the rustling ground!
Is it tragic grief that saddens
Through your souls this autumn day?
Or the joy of death that gladdens
In exultance of decay?
Through your souls this autumn day?
Or the joy of death that gladdens
In exultance of decay?
Arrogant you lift defiant
Boughs against the moaning blast,
That, like some invisible giant,
Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.
Boughs against the moaning blast,
That, like some invisible giant,
Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.
Is it that in such insurgent
Fury tossed from tree to tree,
You would quench the fiercely urgent
Pangs of some old memory?
Fury tossed from tree to tree,
You would quench the fiercely urgent
Pangs of some old memory?
As in toil and violent action,
That still help them to forget,
Mortals drown the dark distraction
And insistence of regret.
That still help them to forget,
Mortals drown the dark distraction
And insistence of regret.
8
She muses in the gathering twilight.
Last night I slept till midnight; then woke, and far away
A cock crowed; lonely and distant came mournful a watch-dog's bay:
But lonelier, sadder the tedious, old clock ticked on towards day.
A 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-ring
Of dew, aroma and sparkle, and flowers and birds a-wing.
That bound our lives together! each morn a wedding-ring
Of dew, aroma and sparkle, and flowers and birds a-wing.
Sweet morns when I strolled my garden awaiting him, the rose
Expected too, with blushes—the Giant-of-Battle that grows
A bank of radiance and fragrance where the gate its shadow throws.
Expected too, with blushes—the Giant-of-Battle that grows
A 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.
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.
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.
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-mass
My bachelor's-buttons scattered over the garden grass,
And the marigolds that boasted their bits of burning brass;
My 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.
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.
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 spot
Of languid leopard beauty that dozes fierce and hot....
Fawn-eyed and tiger-yellow, that tangle a tawny spot
Of languid leopard beauty that dozes fierce and hot....
Ah! back again with the present! with winds that pinch and twist
The leaves in their peevish passion, and whirl wherever they list;
With the autumn, hoary and nipping, whose mausolean mist
The 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,—
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
9
He enters. Taking her in his arms he speaks.
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.
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 driven
Once from your door,
Back he has striven,
To part nevermore!
Love is not poor;
Though he was driven
Once from your door,
Back he has striven,
To part nevermore!
Will you remember
What I forget?—
Words, each an ember,
That you regret?
Now in November,
Now we have met?
What 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 once
Pleading to you!—
He never slept once,
Nor was untrue.
What though you knew!
What if he crept once
Pleading 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.
Love may forget;
Froward and fretful,
Dear, he will fret;
Ever regretful,
He will regret.
Life is completer
Through his control;
Living made sweeter
Even through dole,
Hearing Love's metre
Sing in the soul.
Through his control;
Living made sweeter
Even through dole,
Hearing Love's metre
Sing 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.
Being impure;
And mind may fear it,
May not endure;
But in the spirit—
There we are sure.
So when to-morrow
Ceases, and we
Quit this we borrow,
Mortality,
Love chastens sorrow
So it can see....
Ceases, and we
Quit this we borrow,
Mortality,
Love chastens sorrow
So it can see....
Still you are weeping!
Why do you weep?—
Are tears in keeping
With joy so deep?
Gladness so sweeping?—
Are you asleep?
Why do you weep?—
Are tears in keeping
With 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 clearest
Eyes of grey blue.
Say it is true!—
That I am nearest,
Dearest to you.—
Smile with those clearest
Eyes of grey blue.
10
She smiles through her tears; holding his hands she speaks.
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 how
I loved you—love you; and the pain it is to leave you now?
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 how
I 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 cheeks
Flush hectic, as before the night the west burns blood-red streaks?
Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity,
Denied, forbade.—Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeks
Flush hectic, as before the night the west burns blood-red streaks?
Consumption.—"But I promised you my hand"?—a thing forlorn
Of life; diseased!—Oh, God!—and so, far better so, forsworn!—
Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had died
Ere babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side!
Of life; diseased!—Oh, God!—and so, far better so, forsworn!—
Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had died
Ere babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side!
Had it been little then—your grief, when Heaven had made us one
In everything that's good on earth and then the good undone?
No! no! and had I had a child, what grief and agony
To know that blight born in him, too, against all help of me!
In everything that's good on earth and then the good undone?
No! no! and had I had a child, what grief and agony
To know that blight born in him, too, against all help of me!
Just when we cherish him the most, and youthful, sunny pride
Sits on his curly front, to see him die ere we have died.—
Whose fault?—Ah, God!—not mine! but his, that ancestor who gave
Escutcheon to our humble house—a Death's-head and a Grave.
Sits on his curly front, to see him die ere we have died.—
Whose fault?—Ah, God!—not mine! but his, that ancestor who gave
Escutcheon 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 spun
Of morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon.
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 spun
Of 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."
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 cough
Will interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off....
Ah, anyhow my anodyne is this—to know that you
Are near me, love me!—Kiss me now, as you were wont to do.
Will interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off....
Ah, anyhow my anodyne is this—to know that you
Are near me, love me!—Kiss me now, as you were wont to do.
And tell me you forgive me all; and say you will forget
The 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.
The 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.
PART V
WINTER
We, whom God sets a task,
Striving, who ne'er attain,
We are the curst!—who ask
Death, and still ask in vain.
We, whom God sets a task.
Striving, who ne'er attain,
We are the curst!—who ask
Death, and still ask in vain.
We, whom God sets a task.
1
In the silence of his room. After many days.
All, all are shadows. All must pass
As writing in the sand or sea;
Reflections in a looking-glass
Are not less permanent than we.
As writing in the sand or sea;
Reflections in a looking-glass
Are 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 clay
They fashion and yet leave unreal.
That break us on their whirling wheel?
What but the potters! we the clay
They fashion and yet leave unreal.
Linked through the ages, one and all,
In long anthropomorphous chain,
The human and the animal
Inseparably must remain.
In long anthropomorphous chain,
The human and the animal
Inseparably must remain.
2
The bitterness of his bereavement speaks in him.
Vased in her bedroom window, white
As her chaste girlhood, never lost,
I smelt the roses—and the night
Outside was fog and frost.
As her chaste girlhood, never lost,
I smelt the roses—and the night
Outside was fog and frost.
What though I claimed her dying there!
God nor one angel understood
Nor cared, who from sweet feet to hair
Had changed to snow her blood.
God nor one angel understood
Nor cared, who from sweet feet to hair
Had 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 among
The chords and break one chord!
Our harp of life was one in word—
Why did death thrust his hand among
The chords and break one chord!
A placid lily was the face,
A sad pale rose the mouth I kissed
That morn, when filled with Heaven's own grace
She passed into the mist.
A sad pale rose the mouth I kissed
That morn, when filled with Heaven's own grace
She passed into the mist.
3
Her dead face seems to rise up before him.
The face that I said farewell to,
Pillowed a flower on flowers,
Comes back with its eyes to tell to
My soul what its lips would spell too—
Comes back to me at hours!—
Pillowed a flower on flowers,
Comes back with its eyes to tell to
My soul what its lips would spell too—
Comes back to me at hours!—
Dear, is your heart still daggered
There by something amiss?
Love—is he still a laggard?
Hope—is her face still haggard
Tell me what it is!
There by something amiss?
Love—is he still a laggard?
Hope—is her face still haggard
Tell 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!
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?
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!
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 indecision
Utter no empty mission,
Truer than that they seem.
Gone! like a thought, a gleam!—
Such to our indecision
Utter no empty mission,
Truer than that they seem.