My lady's love has passed away, To know that it is so To me is living woe. That body lies in cold decay, Which held the vital soul When she was my life's soul. Bitter mockery it was to say— “Our souls are as the same:” My words now sting like shame; Her spirit went, and mine did not obey.
It was as if a fiery dart Passed seething thro' my brain When I beheld her lain There whence in life she did not part. Her beauty by degrees, Sank, sharpened with disease: The heavy sinking at her heart Sucked hollows in her cheek, And made her eyelids weak, Tho' oft they'd open wide with sudden start.
The deathly power in silence drew My lady's life away. I watched, dumb with dismay, The shock of thrills that quivered thro' And tightened every limb: For grief my eyes grew dim; More near, more near, the moment grew. O horrible suspense! O giddy impotence! I saw her fingers lax, and change their hue.
Her gaze, grown large with fate, was cast Where my mute agonies Made more sad her sad eyes: Her breath caught with short plucks and fast:— Then one hot choking strain. She never breathed again: I had the look which was her last: Even after breath was gone, Her love one moment shone,— Then slowly closed, and hope for ever passed.
Silence seemed to start in space When first the bell's harsh toll Rang for my lady's soul. Vitality was hell; her grace The shadow of a dream: Things then did scarcely seem: Oblivion's stroke fell like a mace: As a tree that's just hewn I dropped, in a dead swoon, And lay a long time cold upon my face.
Earth had one quarter turned before My miserable fate Pressed on with its whole weight. My sense came back; and, shivering o'er, I felt a pain to bear The sun's keen cruel glare; It seemed not warm as heretofore. Oh, never more its rays Will satisfy my gaze. No more; no more; oh, never any more.
The Love of Beauty
John Boccaccio, love's own squire, deep sworn In service to all beauty, joy, and rest,— When first the love-earned royal Mary press'd, To her smooth cheek, his pale brows, passion-worn,— 'Tis said, he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn By longings unattainable, address'd To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest Some madness in his brain had thence been born. The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning:— Such as have watched the battle-rank'd array Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh! they May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning: But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay?