Sweet Hours
BY CARMEN SYLVA
LONDON R. A. EVERETT & CO., Ltd. 42 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
1904
THESE ever wakeful eyes are closed. They saw Such grief, that they could see no more. The heart— That quick'ning pulse of nations—could not bear Another throb of pain, and could not hear Another cry of tortur'd motherhood. Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears, That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe A mother's comfort into aching hearts. The patriarchal Queen, the monument Of touching widowhood, of endless love, And childlike purity—she sleeps. This night Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom That fathom'd history and saw beyond The times, lies still in marble whiteness. Love So great, so faithful, unforgetting and Unselfish—must it sleep? Or will that veil, That widow's veil unfold, and spread into The dovelike wings, that long were wont to hover In anxious care about her world-wide nest, And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing, Whilst in their upward flight they breast the wind Of Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb, Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy! No silence now for her, who, ever silent, Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows, Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm, That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes, And quiet from that hotly beating heart, Kept still by stern command and unbent will Beneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, where A beacon e'er will burn, a fire, like The Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak, The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No, Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the times Will shed a gentle ray, and show the haven, When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray: If but her century would shine again! Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?
OLD age is gentle as an autumn morn; The harvest over, you will put the plough Into another, stronger hand, and watch The sowing you were wont to do. Old age Is like an alabaster room, with soft White curtains. All is light, but light so mild, So quiet, that it cannot hurt. The pangs Are hushed, for life is wild no more with strife, Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy with The brewing tempests, which have torn away So much, that nothing more remains to fear. What once was hope, is gone. You know. You saw The worst, and not a sigh is left of all The heavy sighs that tore your heart, and not A tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks, And ploughed the furrows into them. You see How others work again and weep again, And hope and fear. Thy alabaster room With marble floor and dainty hangings has A look so still, that others wonder why They feel it churchlike. All thy life is here; Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, and Thy hands have woven yonder curtains that Surround thy seat, a shady sunshine. Age Is feeble not to thee, as all thy wishes Are silent and demand no effort. Age Is kind to thee, allows thee all the rest That never came, when life was hard and toilsome. Receive it with a smile and clothe thyself In white, in Nature's silver crown, and sing A lullaby of promise and of comfort. Tell them that life is precious, after work, And after grief and after all the deaths, And not a loathsome burden of a life. Old age is like a room of alabaster, The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid! No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!
