But they are dead upon the hill,
And he upon the plain;
I sit me by the bank, until
My violets come again.
Richard Garnett.
A YEAR.
WHEN the hot wasp hung in the grape last year,
And tendrils withered and leaves grew sear,
There was little to hope and nothing to fear,
And the smouldering autumn sank apace,
And my heart was hollow and cold and drear.
When the last gray moth that November brings
Had folded its sallow and sombre wings,
Like the tuneless voice of a child that sings,
A music arose in that desolate place,
A broken music of hopeless things.
But time went by with the month of snows,
And the pulse and tide of that music rose;
As a pain that fades is a pleasure that grows,
So hope sprang up with a heart of grace,
And love as a crocus-bud that blows.
And now I know when next autumn has dried
The sweet hot juice to the grape-skin’s side,
And the new wasps dart where the old ones died,
My heart will have rest in one luminous face,
And its longing and yearning be satisfied.
Edmund William Gosse.
I’VE KISSED THEE, SWEETHEART.
From the French of Théophile de Viau.
I’VE kissed thee, sweetheart, in a dream at least,
And though the core of love is in me still,
This joy, that in my sense did softly thrill,
The ardour of my longing hath appeased,
And by this tender strife my spirit, eased,
Can laugh at that sweet theft against thy will,
And, half consoled, I soothe myself until
I find my heart from all its pain released.
My senses, hushed, begin to fall on sleep;
Slumber, for which two weary nights I weep,
Takes thy dear place at last within mine eyes;
And though so cold he is, as all men vow,
For me he breaks his natural icy guise,
And shows himself more warm and fond than thou.
Edmund William Gosse.
COMPLAINT.
MEN, women, call thee so and so;
I do not know.
Thou hast no name
For me, but in my heart a flame