Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,
Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,
To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied
Thy place among the wine?
Ah! we are dull and blind.
The riddle is too hard for us to guess
The why of joy or of unhappiness,
Chosen or left behind.
But everywhere a host
Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine:
Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,
Left out to meet the frost.
EMBALMED.
This is the street and the dwelling,
Let me count the houses o'er;
Yes,—one, two, three from the corner,
And the house that I love makes four.
That is the very window
Where I used to see her head
Bent over book or needle,
With ivy garlanded.
And the very loop of the curtain,
And the very curve of the vine,
Were full of the grace and the meaning
Which was hers by some right divine.
I began to be glad at the corner,
And all the way to the door
My heart outran my footsteps,
And frolicked and danced before,
In haste for the words of welcome,
The voice, the repose and grace,
And the smile, like a benediction,
Of that beautiful, vanished face.
Now I pass the door, and I pause not,
And I look the other way;
But ever, a waft of fragrance,
Too subtle to name or stay,