Part 5 (1/2)
Only I know that I leaned low and drank A long draught from the water where she sank, Her breath and all her tears and all her soul: And as I leaned, I know I felt Love's face Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and grace, Till both our heads were in his aureole.
WITHOUT HER
What of her gla.s.s without her? The blank grey There where the pool is blind of the moon's face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty s.p.a.ce Of cloud-rack whence the moon has pa.s.sed away.
Her paths without her? Day's appointed sway Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place Without her? Tears, ah me! for love's good grace, And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart, Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, Steep ways and weary, without her thou art, Where the long cloud, the long wood's counterpart, Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
LOVE'S FATALITY
Sweet Love,--but oh! most dread Desire of Love Life-thwarted. Linked in gyves I saw them stand, Love shackled with Vain-longing, hand to hand: And one was eyed as the blue vault above: But hope tempestuous like a fire-cloud hove I' the other's gaze, even as in his whose wand Vainly all night with spell-wrought power has spann'd The unyielding caves of some deep treasure-trove.
Also his lips, two writhen flakes of flame, Made moan: 'Alas O Love, thus leashed with me!
Wing-footed thou, wing-shouldered, once born free: And I, thy cowering self, in chains grown tame, Bound to thy body and soul, named with thy name, Life's iron heart, even Love's Fatality.'
STILLBORN LOVE
The hour which might have been yet might not be, Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore Yet whereof life was barren,--on what sh.o.r.e Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea?
Bondchild of all consummate joys set free, It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before The house of Love, hears through the echoing door His hours elect in choral consonancy.
But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand Together tread at last the immortal strand With eyes where burning memory lights love home?
Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned And leaped to them and in their faces yearned:-- 'I am your child: O parents, ye have come!'
TRUE WOMAN
I. HERSELF
To be a sweetness more desired than Spring; A bodily beauty more acceptable Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell; To be an essence more environing Than wine's drained juice; a music ravis.h.i.+ng More than the pa.s.sionate pulse of Philomel;-- To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell That is the flower of life:--how strange a thing!
How strange a thing to be what Man can know But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow; Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,-- The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of green That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.
II. HER LOVE
She loves him; for her infinite soul is Love, And he her lodestar. Pa.s.sion in her is A gla.s.s facing his fire, where the bright bliss Is mirrored, and the heat returned. Yet move That gla.s.s, a stranger's amorous flame to prove, And it shall turn, by instant contraries, Ice to the moon; while her pure fire to his For whom it burns, clings close i' the heart's alcove.
Lo! they are one. With wifely breast to breast And circling arms, she welcomes all command Of love,--her soul to answering ardours fann'd: Yet as morn springs or twilight sinks to rest, Ah! who shall say she deems not loveliest The hour of sisterly sweet hand-in-hand?