Blooms of the Berry Part 13

II.

Gone she has to happy rest With white flowers for her pillow; Moons look sadly on her breast Thro' an ever-weeping willow.

Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow, Waxen as white roses blow Like herself so fair, Free from world and care.

III.

Twine this wreath of lilies wan 'Round her sculptured brow so white; Let her rest here, white as dawn, Like a lily quenched in night.

Wreath this rosebud wild and pale, Wreath it 'mid her fingers frail; On her dreamless breast Let it dreaming rest.

IV.

Gently, gently lay her down, Gently lay her form to sleep; Gently let her soul be blown Far away, while low we weep.

Hush! the earth no more can harm her Now that choirs of angels charm her!

Dreams of life are brief; Naught amendeth grief.

V.

Speed away! speed away!

Angels called her here to sleep; Let us leave her here to stay: Speed away! and, speeding, weep.

Where the roses blow and die, 'Neath them she a rose doth lie Wilted in the gra.s.s Where the shadows pa.s.s.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

I.

The shadows sit and stand within its door Like uninvited guests and poor, And all the long, hot summer day A dry green locust whirs its roundelay, And the shadows halt at the door.

The sheeted iron upon the roof Stretches its weary hide and cracks; The spider weaves his windy woof In dingy closet cracks, And all a something lacks.

The freckled snake crawls o'er the floor, Tongues at the shadows in the door, And where the musty mosses run Basks in the sun.

II.

The children of the fathers sleep Beneath the melancholy pines; Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creep And the glow-worm shines; The orchards in the meadow deep Lift up their stained, gnarled arms, Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep.

No youth swells up to make them leap And cry against the storms; No blossom lulls their age asleep, Each wind brings sad alarms.

Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pears No maiden gathers now; The moistures drip great reeking tears From each old, crippled bough.

III.

The orchards are yellow and solitary, The winds beat down their hands; The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary, The hum of the country is lonesome and weary, And the bees go by in bands To other happier lands.

The gra.s.ses are rotting in walk and in bower; The orchards smell dank and rank As a chamber where lay for a lonely hour A corpse unclad in the taper's glower, Chill, white, and lank.

So the bees go by in murmurous bands, Drowsily wand'ring to happier lands Where the lilies draggle the bank.

IV.

In the desolate halls are lying, Gold, blood-red, and browned, Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying, And the shadows o'er them flying Turn them 'round and 'round, Make a dreary sound Thro' the echoing chambers crying In the haunted house.

V.

Gazing down in her white shroud From the edging cloud Comes at night the dimpled moon, Comes, and like a ghost is gone 'Neath the flying cloud O'er the haunted house.

PERLE DES JARDINS.

What am I, and what is he Who can cull and tear a heart, As one might a rose for sport In its royalty?

What am I, that he has made All this love a bitter foam, Blown about a life of loam That must break and fade?

He who of my heart could make Hollow crystal where his face Like a pa.s.sion had its place Holy and then break!

Shatter with insensate jeers!-- But these weary eyes are dry, Tearless clear, and if I die They shall know no tears.

Yet my heart weeps;--let it weep!

Let it weep in sullen pain, And this anguish in my brain Cry itself to sleep.

Ah! the afternoon is warm, And yon fields are glad and fair; Many happy creatures there Thro' the woodland swarm.

All the summer land is still, And the woodland stream is dark Where the lily rocks its barque Just below the mill.

If they found me icy there 'Mid the lilies and pale whorls Of the cresses in my curls Wet of raven hair--

Fool and coward! are you such?

Would you have him thus to know That you died for utter woe And despair o'ermuch?

No! my face a marble bust!

As the Sphynx, impa.s.sioned, stern!-- Pa.s.sions hid, as in an urn, Burnt to bitter dust!

And I'll write him as he wrote, Making, with his worded scorn, Tyrant,--crowned with stinging thorn,-- His cold, cruel note.

"You'll forget," he says, "and I Feel 'tis better for us twain: It may give you some small pain, But, 'twill soon be by.

"You are dark, and Maud is light; I am dark; and it is said Opposites are better wed;-- So I think I'm right."

"You are dark and Maud is fair!"

I could laugh at this excuse If this aching, mad abuse Were not more than hair!