Part 16 (2/2)

And I said: I will cult my own sweet rose-- Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine-- The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me!

But time pa.s.sed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: ”Where is the rose that waits for thee?”

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.

MY FRIEND.

”He is my friend,” I said,-- ”Be patient!” Overhead The skies were drear and dim; And lo! the thought of him Smited on my heart--and then The sun shone out again!

”He is my friend!” The words Brought summer and the birds; And all my winter-time Thawed into running rhyme And rippled into song, Warm, tender, brave, and strong.

And so it sings to-day.-- So may it sing alway!

Though waving gra.s.ses grow Between, and lilies blow Their trills of perfume clear As laughter to the ear, Let each mute measure end With ”Still he is thy friend.”

SUSPENSE.

A woman's figure, on a ground of night Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there As in vague hope some alien lance of light Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair And grip toward G.o.d with anguish infinite.

And O the carven mouth, with all its great Intensity of longing frozen fast In such a smile as well may designate The slowly-murdered heart, that, to the last, Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate Throbs Love's eternal lie--”Lo, I can wait!”

THE Pa.s.sING OF A HEART.

O touch me with your hands-- For pity's sake!

My brow throbs ever on with such an ache As only your cool touch may take away; And so, I pray You, touch me with your hands!

Touch--touch me with your hands.-- Smooth back the hair You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair That I did dream its gold would wear alway, And lo, to-day-- O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands, And let them press My weary eyelids with the old caress, And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, That Death may say: He touched her with his hands.

BY HER WHITE BED.

By her white bed I muse a little s.p.a.ce: She fell asleep--not very long ago,-- And yet the gra.s.s was here and not the snow-- The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and--her face!-- Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow; The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place In thicker twilight for the roses' scent.

Then _night_.--She slept--in such tranquility, I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep, Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content-- That though G.o.d stood to wake her for me, she Would mutely plead: ”Nay, Lord! Let _him_ so sleep.”

WE TO SIGH INSTEAD OF SING.

”Rain and rain! and rain and rain!”

Yesterday we muttered Grimly as the grim refrain That the thunders uttered: All the heavens under cloud-- All the suns.h.i.+ne sleeping; All the gra.s.ses limply bowed With their weight of weeping.

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