When you lay before me dead, In your pallid rest, On those passive lips of thine Not one kiss I pressed!
Did you wonder—looking down From some higher sphere— Knowing how we two had loved Many and many a year?
Did you think me strange and cold When I did not touch, Even with reverent finger-tips, What I had loved so much?
Ah! when last you kissed me, dear, Know you what you said? “Take this last kiss, my beloved, Soon shall I be dead!
Keep it for a solemn sign, Through our love’s long night, Till you give it back again On some morning bright.”
So I gave you no caress; But, remembering this, Warm upon my lips I keep Your last living kiss!
WHAT SHE THOUGHT
Marion showed me her wedding-gown And her veil of gossamer lace to-night, And the orange-blooms that to-morrow morn Shall fade in her soft hair’s golden light. But Philip came to the open door: Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek, And they wandered off through the garden-paths So blest that they did not care to speak.
I wonder how it seems to be loved; To know you are fair in someone’s eyes; That upon someone your beauty dawns Every day as a new surprise; To know that, whether you weep or smile, Whether your mood be grave or gay, Somebody thinks you, all the while, Sweeter than any flower of May.
I wonder what it would be to love: That, I think, would be sweeter far,— To know that one out of all the world Was lord of your life, your king, your star! They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain: I am not sure that I understand, Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tips Once when—somebody—touched my hand!