O fair young queen, who liest dead to-day In thy proud palace o’er the moaning sea, With still, white hands that never more may be Lifted to pluck life’s roses bright with May— Little is it to you that, far away, Where skies you knew not bend above the free, Hearts touched with tender pity turn to thee, And for thy sake a shadow dims the day! But youth and love and womanhood are one, Though across sundering seas their signals fly; Young Love’s pure kiss, the joy but just begun, The hope of motherhood, thy people’s cry— O thou fair child! was it not hard to die And leave so much beneath the summer sun?
GRASS-GROWN
Grass grows at last above all graves, you say? Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all! To think that stars will rise and dews will fall, Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play Where roses bloom and violets of May, Robin to robin in the tree-tops call, And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall, Just as they did before that strange, sad day! Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to know That our eyes sometime must forget to weep, Even as June forgets December’s snow? Over the graves where our belovèd sleep, We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow, Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep!
TO ZÜLMA
I.
Sometimes my heart grows faint with longing, dear— Longing to see thy face, to touch thy hand. But mountains rise between us; leagues of land Stretch on and on where mighty lakes lie clear In the far spaces, and great forests rear Their sombre crowns on many a lonely strand! Yet, O my fair child, canst thou understand, Thou whose dear place was once beside me here, How yet I dare not pray that thou and I Again may dwell together as of old? There is a gate between us, locked and barred, Over which we may not climb; and standing nigh Is the white angel Sorrow, who doth hold The only key that may unlock its ward!
II.
Yet think not I would have it otherwise! Our God, who knoweth women’s hearts, knows best— And every little bird must build its nest From whence it soareth, singing, to the skies. What though the one that thou hast builded lies Where sinks the sun to its enchanted rest, If, on each breeze that bloweth east or west, To thee, on swiftest wing, my spirit flies? We are not far apart, and ne’er shall be! For Love, like God, knoweth not time, nor space, And it is freer than the viewless air; And well I know, belovèd, that if we Trod different planets in yon starry space We should reach out, and find each other there!
SLEEP
Who calls thee “gentle Sleep?” O! rare coquette, Who comest crowned with poppies, thou shouldst wear Nettles instead, or thistles, in thine hair; For thou ’rt the veriest elf that ever yet Made weary mortals sigh and toss and fret! Thou dost float softly through the drowsy air Hovering as if to kiss my lips and share My restless pillow; but ere I can set My arms to clasp thee, without sign or speech, Save one swift, mocking smile thou ’rt out of reach! Yet, sometime, thou, or one as like to thee As sister is to sister, shalt draw near With such soft lullabies for my dull ear, That neither life nor love shall waken me!