CONTRASTS
No eve of summer ever can attain
The gladness of that eve of late July,
When ’mid the roses, dripping with the rain,
Against the wondrous topaz of the sky,
I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,—
While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.
No night of blackest winter can repeat
The bitterness of that December night,
When, at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet,
Within the glimmering square of window-light,
We parted,—long you clung unto my arm,—
While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm.
CARISSIMA MEA
I look upon my sweetheart’s face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place.
It is not made, as others sing
Of their young loves, like ivory,
But like a wild-rose in the spring.
Her brow is low and very fair,
And o’er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair.
Beneath her brows her eyes gleam gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly—
Their wonder haunts me night and day.
Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,—
Twin curves of penciled ebony,—
Within their spans contain my fate.
Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,—
So small and sweet!—it well may be
That it for me is yet reserved.
Between her hair and rounded chin,
Calm with her soul’s calm purity,
There lies no shadow of a sin.
Of perfect form, she is not tall,—
Just higher than the heart of me,
O’er which I place her, all in all.
She is not shaped, as some have sung
Of their young loves, like some slim tree,
But like the moon when it is young.
Her hands, that smell of violet,
So white and fashioned fragrantly,
Have woven round my heart a net.
Yea, I have loved her many a day;
And though for me she may not be,
Still at her feet my love I lay.
Albeit she be not for me,
God send her grace and grant that she
Know naught of sorrow all her days,
And help me still to sing her praise!
AN AUTUMN NIGHT
Some things are good on autumn nights,
When with the storm the forest fights,
And in the room the heaped hearth lights
Old-fashioned press and rafter:
Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,
A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,
And at your side a face petite,
With lips of laughter.
Upon the roof the rolling rain,
And, tapping at the window-pane,
The wind that seems a witch’s cane
That summons spells together:
A hand within your own a while;
A mouth reflecting back your smile;
And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile
All thoughts of weather.
And, while the wind lulls, still to sit
And watch her fire-lit needles flit
A-knitting, and to feel her knit
Your very heart-strings in it:
Then, when the old clock ticks “’t is late,”
To rise, and at the door to wait
Two words, or, at the garden-gate,
A kissing minute.
A DAUGHTER OF THE STATES
She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen
Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,
Wherein th’ unconquerable soul defies,
And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.
And I have thought that Liberty, alone
Among her mountain stars, might look like her,
Kneeling to God, her only emperor,
Kindling her torch on Freedom’s altar-stone.
For in her self, regal with riches of
Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born—
Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn,
And Ermengarde, returning love for love.
THE QUARREL
An instant only and her eyes
Flashed lightning like the angry skies;
And o’er her forehead, curving down,
Fell dark the shadow of a frown;
Then backward, deep and stormy fair,
She tossed the tempest of her hair;
Then of her lips’ full rose disdain
Made a pink-folded bud again;
Then quicker than all utterance,
All changed: and at a word, a glance,
Her anger rained its tears, then passed;
And she was in my arms at last;
The austere woman, doubly dear,
And lovelier for each falling tear:
But why we quarreled, how it grew,
I can not tell, I never knew:
Perhaps ’t was Love; he, who, with tears,
Would show how fair a face appears;
As, after storm, the sky ’s more blue,
A wildflower ’s fairer for the dew.
MIRIAM
What better praise for all her ways
Than that all days her ways illume?
Such brightness as the maiden year
Knows, when God’s kindness seems as near
As flowers whose wisdom ’s but to bloom.
Hers the deep hair: a face more fair
Than roses June sets blossoming:
The sunshine of her gladness gleams
In bloom-bright lips and cheeks, and dreams
Upon her throat’s soft coloring.
Her voice is sweet as birds that greet
With song the coming of the light:
The serious happy gleam that lies
In the dark lustre of her eyes
Is as the starlight to the night.
Beyond the sea such girls as she
It was whom Titian loved to paint,
With calm Madonna eyes, and hair
Rich auburn; robed in gold and vair,
Fair as the vision of a saint.
THE SUMMER SEA
Over the summer sea,
When the white-eyed stars look pale,
And the moonbeams make a trail
Of gold through the waves for me,
I turn my ghostly sail
Away, away,
And follow the form I see
Over the summer sea.
Over the misty sea,
Ere the cliff which highest soars
From the billow-beaten shores
Reddens all rosily,
Where the witch-white water roars,
Far on, far on.
Through the foam she beckons me
Over the summer sea.
Over the haunted sea,
When the great, gold moon low lies
On the rim of the western skies,
’Twixt the moon, she comes, and me,
And gazes in my eyes;
Low down, low down,
’Twixt the orbéd moon and me,
Over the summer sea.
Deep in the bitter sea,
Wilt thou drag me down, O sweet?
Down, down! from hair to feet
Filled with thee utterly?
Against thy heart’s wild beat?—
At last! at last!
Wilt drag me down with thee,
Deep in the summer sea?
FINALE
So let it be. Thou dare not say ’t was I!—
Here in life’s temple, where thy soul can see,
Look where the beauty of our love doth lie,
Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!—
Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!
This is the end. What need to tell it thee!
So let it be.
So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him,
And sorrow, who sat by him deified,—
For whom his face made comfort,—lo! how dim
They heap his altar which they can not hide,
While memory’s lamp swings o’er it, burning slim.—
This is the end. What shall be said beside?
So let it be.
So let it be. Did we not drain the wine,
Red, of love’s sacramental chalice, when
He laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?
Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill again
Now it is empty of the god divine!—
This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.
So let it be.
CONCLUSION
The songs Love sang to us are dead:
Yet shall he sing to us again,
When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
And the red woodland drips with rain.
The lily of our love is gone,
That graced our spring with golden scent:
Now in the garden low upon
The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.
Our rose of dreams is passed away,
That lit our summer with sweet fire:
The storm beats bare each thorny spray,
And its dead leaves are trod in mire.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:
Yet shall he sing to us again,
When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
And the red woodland drips with rain.
The marigold of memory
Shall fill our autumn then with glow:
Haply its bitterness will be
Sweeter for love of long-ago.
The cypress of forgetfulness
Shall haunt our winter with its hue:
Its apathy to us not less
Dear for the dreams love’s summer knew.
