Days and Dreams Part 6

Now is the Winter waited 'Neath skies of frozen gold, Or raining heavens hated Of winds that curse and scold.-- Shall this be so: that never Shall sunlight snowlight sever?

Forever and forever The heart wait winter-cold?

2.

Soft music bring that seems to weep All this dull sorrow of the soul; Vague music soft to utter sleep, Sleep and undying dole: Forgetting not--forgotten most-- How love is well though lost.

So weary, oh! and yet so fain In silent service of the heart; Still feeling if it be in vain Love's spirit hath His part; And if in death G.o.d grant the rest Life were but kind at best.

3.

Last night I slept till midnight Then woke, and far away A c.o.c.k crowed; lonely and distant Came mournful a watch-dog's bay; But lonelier, slower the tedious Old clock ticked on towards day.

And what a day!--remember The morns of a Summer and Spring, That bound two lives together?

Each morn a wedding ring Of dew and dreams and sparkle, Of flowers and birds a-wing?

Broad morns when I strolled the garden Awaiting one the rose Expected, fresh in its blushes-- The Giant of Battle that grows A head of radiance and fragrance, The champion of the close.

Not in vain did I wait, departed Summer, this morning mocks; 'Mid the powdery crystal and crimson Of your hollow hollyhocks; Your fairy-bells and poppies, And the bee that in them rocks.

Cool-clad 'mid the pendulous purple Of the morning-glory vine, By the giant pearls pellucid Of the peonies a-line, The snapdragons' and the pansies'

Deep-colored jewel mine.

Shall I ever see my mealy, Drunk dusty-millers gay; My lady-slippers bashful Of b.u.t.terfly and ray; My gillyflowers as spicy Each as a day of May?

Oh, dear when I think of the handfuls Of little gold coin a-ma.s.s, My bachelor's-b.u.t.tons scatter Over the garden gra.s.s; Of the marigold that boasts its One bit of burning bra.s.s;

More bitter I feel the winter Tighten to spirit and heart; And dream of the days remembered As lost--of the past a part; Of the ways we went, all blotted, Tear-blotted on love's chart.

And I see the mill and the diamonds Of foam tossed from its wheel; Red lilies tumbled together, The madcap wind at heel; And the timid veronicas' blossoms-- Those prayers the woods conceal.

The wild-cat gray of the meadows That the ox-eyed daisies dot, Fawn-eyed and a leopard-yellow, That tangle a tawny spot-- As if some panther tired Lay dozing tame and hot.

Ah! back again with the present, With winds that pinch and twist Each leaf in their peevish pa.s.sion, And whirl wherever they list; With the morning h.o.a.ry and nipping, Whose mausolean mist

Builds white a tomb for the daylight-- A frosty, s.h.a.ggy fog, That fits gray wigs on the cedars, And furs with wool each log; Carpets with satin the meadow, And velvets white the bog.

Alone at morn--indifferent; Alone at eve--I sigh; And wait, like the wind complaining, Complain and know not why; But ailing and longing and hating Because I cannot die.

How dull are the sunsets! dreary Cold, hard and harsh and dead!

Far richer were those of August, One stain of wine-dark red-- The juice of a mulberry vintage-- To the new moon overhead.

But now I sit with the sighing Dead wests of a dying year!

Like the fallen leaves and the acorns Am worthless and feel as sear; For the soul and the body sicken, And the heart's one scalding tear.

And I stare from my window! The darkness, Like a bravo, his cloak throws on; The moon, like a hidden lanthorn, Glitters--or dagger drawn; All my heart cries out beseeching: "Strike here! strike and be gone!"

4.

When friends are sighing Round one and one Nearer is lying, Nearer the sun, When one is dying And all is done;

I may remember, You may forget Words, each an ember, Burning here yet-- In dead December One will regret.

Love we have given, Over and o'er, All, who has driven Us from his door, Is he forgiven When he is poor?

What if you wept once, What though he knew!

What if he slept once!

Still he was true, If he but kept once Something of you.

Never forgetful, Love may forget; Froward and fretful, Child, he will fret; Ever regretful, He will regret.

Love would be sweeter If we but knew; Lives be completer To themselves true; Hearts more in metre, Truth looking through.

Flesh never near it, Being impure, Mind must endear it Making it sure-- Love in the spirit, That will endure.

So when to-morrow Ceases and we Quit this we borrow, Mortality, Such chastens sorrow So it may see.

There will be weeping, Weary and deep,-- G.o.d's be the keeping Of those that weep!-- When our loved, sleeping, Sleep their long sleep;

Then they are dearer Than we're aware; Character clearer, Being more fair; Then they are nearer, Nearer by prayer.

5.

They will not say I can not live beyond the weary night, But then I know that I shall die before comes morning's light.

How frail is flesh!--but you 'll forgive me now I tell you how I loved you, love you; and the pain it gives to leave you now?

This could not be on earth; the flesh, that clothes the soul of me-- Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity-- Denied, forbade.--Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeks Grow hectic, as before comes night blood dyes the sunset's streaks?

Consumption. "But I promised you my love"--'t is left forlorn Of life G.o.d summons unto him, and is it then forsworn?

Oh, I was glad in love of you; but think: if I had died Ere babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side?

Had it been little then, your grief, when Heaven had made us one In everything that's good on earth and then the good undone?

No! no!--and had I lived to raise a boy we saw each day Bud into beauty, with that blight born in him that must slay!

Just when we cherish him the most, and youthful, sunny pride Sits on his curly front, he pines and dies ere I have died.

Whose fault?--not mine! but hers or his, that ancestor who gave Escutcheon to our humble house--a death's-head and a grave.

Beneath the pomp of those grim arms we live and may not move; Nor faith, nor fame, nor wealth avail to hurl them down, nor love.

How could I tell you this?--not then! when all the world was spun Of morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon.

I could not tell you how disease hid here a viper germ, Precedence slowly claiming and so slowly fixing firm.

And when I broke our plighted troth and would not tell you why, I loved you, thinking "time enough when I have come to die."

Draw off my rings and let my hands rest so ... the wretched cough Will interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off....

Ah, anyhow, my anodyne is this--to feel that you Are near me, that your healthy hand soothes mine's unhealthy dew.