“I stood a giant in my power,—
And did she question or dispute?
I stood a savage, selfish brute,—
She bowed her head, a lily-flower.
“And when I sudden turned to go,
And told her I should come no more,
She bowed her head so low, so low,
Her vast black hair fell pouring o’er.
“And that was all; her splendid face
Was mantled from me, and her night
Of hair half hid her from my sight
As she fell moaning in her place.
“And there, ’mid her dark night of hair,
She sobbed, low moaning through her tears,
That she would wait, wait all the years,—
Would wait and pray in her despair.
“Nay, did not murmur, not deny,—
She did not cross me one sweet word!
I turned and fled: I thought I heard
A night-bird’s piercing low death-cry!”
[THE RHYME OF THE GREAT RIVER.]
PART II.
How soft this moonlight of the South!
How sweet my South in soft moonlight!
I want to kiss her warm sweet mouth
As she lies sleeping here to-night.
How still! I do not hear a mouse.
I see some bursting buds appear;
I hear God in His garden,—hear
Him trim some flowers for His house.
I hear some singing stars; the mouth
Of my vast river sings and sings,
And pipes on reeds of pleasant things,—
Of splendid promise for my South:
My great South-woman, soon to rise
And tiptoe up and loose her hair;
Tiptoe, and take from all the skies
God’s stars and glorious moon to wear!