Thank God for this; her woman’s faith remained
Steadfast, unshaken to the very last,
And with her idol undefaced, unstained,
To place it in a “niche in Heaven” she passed.
But yesterday, your lightest whispered word
Had thrilled her heart, as spring’s first breath awakes
The rapture in the bosom of a bird
Till winter’s silence with a song he breaks.
And I,—whose love for her was purified
In the fierce crucible of human pain,
Had felt that I was more than satisfied
If loss of mine had ended in her gain.
For her soul’s sustenance you only left
The memory of a lightly plighted vow,
To take one kiss from those dead lips were theft,
The jewel was yours,—I claim the casket now.
HER FIRST SEASON
Cloud-like laces softly float
Round a dainty snow-white throat—
Fastened here and flutt’ring there
With a careless cunning care;
Blue-bells, blue as summer skies are.
Or her own sweet sunny eyes are,
Cluster close beneath her chin,
As if love—and not a pin—
Kept them fondly nestling in!
Gown of some transparent thing,
Like a dragonfly’s clear wing
Full of whispers vague and sweet,
Falls in white folds to her feet.
Light as moss veils drape their roses,
Round her flower-like form it closes—
Every graceful curve it shows us.
Silken mittens soft and quaint,
Of a shade æsthetic, faint,
Weave a jealous network o’er
Two pink palms that I adore;
And a musical mixed jangle
Comes from bracelet and from bangle
As it fetters each slim wrist
(Made but to be clasped and kissed),
With fantastic coil and twist.
Hair a-ripple like ripe corn
Wind-kissed on a summer morn.
What, you say you see the glint
Of a reaper’s blue scythe in’t?
Nay, ’tis but a silver arrow
Wand’ring through a golden furrow,
Where the sun-shafts bore and burrow.
Like a bright plumed bird is she,
From the home-nest just set free;
Knowing neither grief nor wrong,
In her heart and lips a song.
’Tis not I would wish to make her
Prim and drab-gown’d like a Quaker!
All fair things are beauty’s dower—
Doth not God’s hand paint the flower?
(Youth is but a fleeting hour!)