Part 1 (1/2)
Sonnets and Songs.
by Helen Hay Whitney.
I
_Ave atque Vale_
As a blown leaf across the face of Time Your name falls emptily upon my heart.
In this new symmetry you have no part, No lot in my fair life. The stars still chime Autumn and Spring in ceaseless pantomime.
I play with Beauty, which is kin to Art, Forgetting Nature. Nor do pulses start To hear your soul remembered in a rhyme.
You may not vex me any more. The stark Terror of life has pa.s.sed, and all the stress.
Winds had their will of me, and now caress, Blown from bland groves I know. Time dreams, and I, As on a mirror, see the days go by In nonchalant procession to the dark.
II
”_Chaque baiser vaut un roman._”
I, living love and laughter, have forgot The way the heart has uttered melody.
As sobbing, plaintive cadence of the sea A poet's soul should rest, remembering not The inland paths of green, the flowers, the spot Where fairies ring. In hermit ecstasy Music is born, and gay or wofully Lovers of Poesy share her lonely lot.
For you and me, Beloved, crowned with Spring, Catching Love's flowers from off the lap of Time, What are the songs my voice has scorned to sing?
Ghostly they hover round my heart-wise lips; Into a kiss I fold my rose of Rhyme, Laid like a martyr on your finger-tips.
III
_As a Pale Child_
As a pale child, hemmed in by windy rain, Patiently turns to touch his well-known toys, Playing as children play who make no noise, Yet happy in a way; then sighs again, To watch the world across the storm-dim pane, And sees with wistful eyes glad girls and boys Who romp beneath the rain's unlicensed joys, And feels wild longings sweep his gentle brain.
So I, contented with my flowers for stars, Stroll in my fair, walled garden happily, Knowing no gladder game till, shrill and sweet, I hear life's cry ring down the silent street, And press my face against the sunlit bars To watch the joyous spirits who are free.
IV
_Flower of the Clove_
Ah, Love, have pity!--I am but a child; I ask but light and laughter, and the tears Darken the sunlight of my fairest years.
By love made desolate, by love beguiled, I waste the Spring. Love's harvest wains are piled With poppies and gold grain--I glean but fears Of empty hands, grim hunger, and the jeers Of happy wives whose loves are reconciled.