IF thou hadst felt toward me as I to thee,
Since the first hour that love knocked at my heart,
And I, unwilling, opened it in part,
Then would all Heaven’s warmth have been to me
As noon-day sun upon some tranquil sea;
And every hour its blessing would impart
To both our souls, that never could depart
Till we had cast it from us willingly.
Then why, Sweet Love, should this not still be so?
A great ideal perchance we both conceive,
And striving, each in some vain way, to find,
Lose youth’s enduring treasure here below.
Why mayst thou not, then, in thy heart perceive
That thou art to thyself and me unkind?
LV
LIKE the soft air of summer is thy smile,
That, lighting on my sadness, clears the air,
To make this clouded life again seem fair,
With all thy deft enchantments, that beguile
The swains that follow thee for many a mile.
But with thy sunshine I find lurking there,
Something in thee that bringeth deep despair,
Seeming to savor of young Cupid’s wile.
Then hath he not, mayhap, enveigled thee
Into the mischief of his lover’s net,
And caused thee to torment thy swains anew,
With tricks, of which thou mayst the author be?
’Twould seem as if some love-snare he had set,
To wreck the lives of lovers not a few.
LVI
IF every song I sing seems tinged with sadness;
If every hour I think of thee I sigh;
If I for love still grieve, ask me not why
I do not sing to-day in joy and gladness;
Nor tell me, if not so, that it is madness.
For such strange action would my heart belie,
And from my spirit ring a love-sick cry
Against so fair a semblance of its badness.
If reason thou wouldst have, ask thine own self
Why thou dost keep me, in love’s penury,
Upon the desert of my great desire,
And, like some oasis, receive myself
At distant spaces of its memory—
To burn my soul with an unquenchèd fire!
LVII
LIKE the new moon, cold mistress of the heaven,
A silver bow delightful to behold,
Art thou, sweet maid, sweet both to young and old,
Yet false in thy profession of love’s leaven;
Untrue to one who, true to thee, hath striven
(Since first thy love thou didst to him unfold)
To keep thee from becoming chill and cold
As the swift snows that by the winds are driven.
At times it seemeth thou dost act a part;
Now to deceive the depth of my life’s passion;
Now loving as no lover did before.
Then suddenly within my soul thou art
Like some ideal that God alone could fashion;
But with the moon depart to shine no more.
LVIII
AH Love! Couldst thou but greet me every even,
And let thine eyes lose those soft rays in mine;
Couldst thou but share with me this bread and wine,
Or something of what God to me hath given,
Then might I feel, that not in vain was driven
This love-shaft in my soul; for it would shine
With gratitude, and round thine own entwine
The fairest flowers that e’er were grown in Heaven.
Had I but thee to share my pain with me,
Pain would be joy, and joy that pain dispelled.
Were thy dear form beside me, night and day,
Then could I grieve no longer, but would be
So happy, happiness would be impelled
To change my spirit in some magic way.