What shall I make of it? I who am trembling,
Dreading to lose her.—A moth, the dissembling
Flame of the candle attracts with its guttering,
Flattering on till its body lies fluttering,
Scorched in the summer night.—Foolish, importunate,
Why did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfortunate!—
Such has she been to me making me such to her,
Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!—
What shall I make of it? what can I make?
Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless,
Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless.
I,—with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,—
Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasin,
Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.—
I,—in the sky with the egrets that, flying me,
Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly,
White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderly
Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious;—
Wandered unheeding my steps in the odious
Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry
Violet curve of thy star falling fiery—
So was I lost in night! thus am undone!
Have I not told to her—living alone for her—
Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her
Here in the soil of my soul? their variety
Endless—and ever she answered with piety.
See! it has come to this—all the tale's suavity
At the ninth chapter grows wretched to gravity;
Cruel as death all our beautiful history—
Close it!—the finis is more than a mystery.—
Yes, I will go to her; yes, I will speak.
7
After the last meeting; the day following.
I seem to see her still; to see
That dim blue room. Her perfume comes
From lavender folds draped dreamily—
One blossom of brocaded blooms—
Some stuff of orient looms.
I seem to hear her speak; and back
Where lies the sun on books and piles
Of porcelain and bric-a-brac,
A tall clock ticks above the tiles,
Where Love's framed profile smiles.
I hear her say, "Ah, had I known!—
I suffer too for what has been—
For what must be."—A wild ache shone
In her sad eyes that seemed to lean
On something far, unseen.
And as in sleep my own self seems
Outside my suffering self.—I flush
'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,
And wait as silent as that hush
Of lilac light and plush.