I

You told me that you love the water,

The cascades’ roaring, rushing water,

The rivers’ gently flowing water,

The pools’ mysterious silent water,

The erring brooklets’ whisp’ring water,

The oceans’ moaning, hissing water,

The oceans’ seething, sighing water,

It’s thundering, caressing water.

My love for you is also as the water,

The roaring, rushing, silent, whisp’ring water.

The thundering, the seething, sighing water.

Oh, love me, for my love is like the water,

Did you not tell me that you love the water?

II

I’ve been a profligate till now,

Have squandered of the treasures of my heart

In reckless fashion.

Henceforth my beloved,

Each precious scrap of love,

Each feeling, thought or passion,

Is yours alone.

My very life is yours.

III

You sometime make me dream of fair Granada,

Of olden days of Moorish reign and glory;

At other times you make me feel the gloom

Of Christian Spain, sepulchral and morose.

You are as the Alhambra when you smile,

Gold-tinted, graceful, radiating joy.

But when you frown or are indifferent,

Then like to the Escurial you are,

Depressing, full of sombreness and chill.

IV

I strolled through lonely by-paths in the park,

It was the hour, it was the mystic hour,

When ’tis no longer day, nor yet is night.

When o’er all nature hangs a solemn hush,

And everything is peaceful and serene.

And thus I strolled along and thought of her—

And then I sat upon a rustic bench

And thought of her,—and only thought of her.

And o’ver all nature hung a solemn hush;

And I was sad, and it was growing dark.

And as I sat there on the rustic bench

Close by to me I heard two voices speak.

They spoke Italian. Softly did they speak,

And there was sadness in their voices too.

One spoke of Beatrice as angel might

Have spoken of the queen of all the heavens;

The other spoke of Laura as a bard

Would speak of her who might have been the queen,—

The queen of every kingdom of the earth.

I turned my head and seated by my side

I saw the sad, illustrious Tuscan bards,

The requiem of whose unrequited love

Reverberates throughout eternity.

I did not rise and go, but kept my place.

Is not my love as great as was their love?

And is not she as beautiful, as cold,

As hopelessly indifferent and cold,

As ever Beatrice and Laura were?

And so I also spoke about my love,

Then we were silent sitting side by side.

Upon that rustic bench in Central Park,

Along a lonesome by-path in the park.

It was the hour, it was that mystic hour

When ’tis no longer day nor yet is night;

And o’er all nature hangs a solemn hush,

And everything is peaceful and serene.

Then they both went away so quietly

That I was unaware that they had gone

Until I turned my head and saw them not.

V

My heart is like a man condemned to death,

Who in the corner of his gloomy cell

Hugs one last spark of hope.

Bright as a diamond in the dark of night,

And as a diamond difficult to crush,

Is this last spark of hope.

VI

Since Orpheus with the magic of his music,

Could charm the wildest beast, why could not I

Enthrall you with the music of my love?

Is not love’s music magical enough,

Or is your heart stone deaf?

Even if so!

I will perform a miracle and cause

Your heart to hear love’s music.

VII

And even if you loved me not,

If you but knew the pain I feel

When you but breathe a word that’s harsh,

When you betray the faintest frown;

And when you mock me for my love,

Or chide me for the least caress,

If you but knew the pain I feel.

Aye, even if you loved me not,

You ne’er would frown at me or mock

My love for you, or harshly speak,

Or bid me not to kiss your hand;

Instead you’d treat me as a child,

You’d treat me as a child that’s sick,

And patiently you would submit

To my caress; you would allow

My feverish hands to stroke your hair,

My quivering lips to kiss your brow,

My famished eyes to feast on you,

And my delirious heart to spin:

To spin a spider’s web of love,

To make your heart its captive fly.

Aye, even if you loved me not,

If you but knew the pain I feel,

Whene’er I think you love me not,

You’d treat me as a little child;

You’d tell me love’s sweet fairy tale,

I will believe love’s fairy tale.

Please tell me love’s sweet fairy tale,

Aye, even if you love me not.

VIII

The sun is warm and bright,

All nature sings;

The song of love and life is in the air,

The flowing waters and the rolling hills,

The grass we tread upon, the birds that fly,

The humming insects, aye, all men, all beasts,

All things are happy in the sun’s caress.

But in my heart, in my unhappy heart,

The icy blast of winter still persists,

And desolation reigns.

Your frown obliterates the sun for me,

And your indifference is worse than death.

And in my heart, in my unhappy heart,

Dire desolation reigns.

IX

This is the tale of an unhappy sculptor,

A shaft of marble radiantly white,

Whose adamantine substance would not yield

To the impassioned efforts of the sculptor.

The chisel struck the irresponsive rock

Again, again, again, but all in vain

Until at last discouraged and exhausted

He sinks down at the foot of this cold stone.

That might have been a living Galathea,

But is alas the tombstone of Pygmalion.

X

It was a sepulchre I have been wooing:

Fair to behold was she and seeming warm,

But deep within as cold as death itself,

And to love’s fervent pleadings irresponsive;

Aye, even as the tomb.

Deaf to the voice of poetry and love,

Alas! she’s doubly deaf.

It was a sepulchre I have been wooing.

The October issue of THE GLEBE will present “The Azure Adder,” a one-act comedy by Charles Demuth.

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Transcriber’s Notes

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected.