Part 39 (1/2)

I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often 'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true, But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften: Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

Think not that on the journey thou hast taken So newly, I should fail to find thy track; Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken, For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden Through veils of midnight darkness in the town To the eager heart with loving fancies laden, And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances, That bids the love-word trippingly to glide, Is now deception; for if flas.h.i.+ng glances Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

And when he knows thy life is a remembrance, Thy friend the moon will feel his s.h.i.+ning vain, Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance, And even in his waxing time, will wane.

Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding On twigs where pink is struggling with the green, Greeted by kol-birds sweet concert holding-- Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention, To speed the missile when the bow is bent?

They buzz about me now with kind intention, And mortify the grief which they lament.

Arise! a.s.sume again thy radiant beauty!

Rebuke the kol-bird, whom nature taught Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty As messenger to bosoms pa.s.sion-fraught.

Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion, Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest By fervent, self-surrendering devotion-- And memories like these deny me rest.

Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland, Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!

Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

Thy service by the cruel G.o.ds demanded, Meant service to thy wife left incomplete, My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded-- Return to end the adorning of my feet.

No, straight to thee I fly, my body given, A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire, Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven, Awake in thee an answering desire.

Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated For evermore a deep reproach to prove, A stain that may not be obliterated, If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

And how can I perform the last adorning Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?

So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow, The bow slung careless on thy breast the while, Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow, Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fas.h.i.+on The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath Of dreadful s.h.i.+va, in excess of pa.s.sion, Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path?”

Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm, Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief As friends.h.i.+p can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

And at the sight of him, she wept the more, And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast; For lamentation finds an open door In the presence of the friends we love the best.

Stifling, she cried: ”Behold the mournful matter!

In place of him thou seekest, what is found?

A something that the winds of heaven scatter, A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging, Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot; Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing; Man's love for man abides and changes not.

With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string, Reduced men, giants, G.o.ds to thy dominion-- The triple world has felt that arrow sting.