Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 2

I urged my suit. "My bond!" I did exclaim, "My pink and white, the hand I love to press, The golden hair that crowns her loveliness; And all the beauties which I cannot name; All, all are mine, and I will have the same, Though she should hate me for my love's excess."

XX.

I knew myself. I knew the withering fate That would consume me, if, amid my trust, I sued for Hope as beggars for a crust.

"O G.o.d!" I cried, entranced though desolate, "Hallow my love, or turn it into hate."

And then I bow'd, in anguish, to the dust.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Letter II SORROW]

LETTER II.

SORROW.

I.

Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad.

For there is madness in the looks of love; And he who frights a tender, brooding dove Is not more base than I, and not so sad; For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad, And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above.

II.

He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees, He clomb the branches with his hands and knees.

And craned his neck to kiss what he espied.

But down he fell, unseemly in his pride, And told his follies to the fitful breeze.

III.

I was convicted of as strange a thing, And wild as strange; for, in a hope forlorn, I fought with Fate. But now the flag is torn Which like a herald in the days of spring I held aloft. The birds have ceased to sing The dear old songs they sang from morn to morn.

IV.

All holy things avoid me. Breezes pa.s.s And will not fan my cheek, as once they did.

The gloaming hies away like one forbid; And day returns, and shadows on the gra.s.s Fall from the trees; and night and morn ama.s.s No joys for me this side the coffin-lid.

V.

Absolve me, Sweet! Absolve me, or I die; And give me pardon, if no other boon.

Aye, give me pardon, and the sun and moon, And all the stars that wander through the sky Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd cry Of one poor heart will thank thee for it soon.

VI.

And mine Amati--my beloved one-- The tender sprite who soothes, as best he may, My fever'd pulse, and makes a roundelay Of all my fears--e'en he, when all is done, Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day.

VII.

For he is human, though, to look at him, To see his shape, to hear,--as from the throat Of some bright angel,--his ecstatic note, A sinful soul might dream of cherubim.

Aye! and he watches when my senses swim, And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float.

VIII.

Often, indeed, I tell him more than man E'er tells to woman in the honied hours Of tranced night, in cities or in bowers; And more, perchance, than lovers in the span Of absent letters may, with scheming, plan For life's surrender in the fairy towers.

IX.

And he consoles me. There is none I find, None in the world, so venturesome and wild, And yet withal, so tender, true, and mild, As he can be. And those who think him blind Are much to blame. His ways are ever kind; And he can plead as softly as a child.

X.

And when he talks to me I feel the touch Of some sweet hope, a feeling of content Almost akin to what by joy is meant.

And then I brood on this; for Love is such, It makes us weep to want it overmuch, If wayward Fate withhold his full consent.

XI.

Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire, My lov'd Amati! At a word of thine I can be brave, and dash away the brine From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre To curb the anguish of this soul of mine.

XII.

Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage, I cannot deem that in a gilded cage Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings Is not a mortal. No! Enthralment flings Its charms about thee like a poet's rage.

XIII.

Thou hast no s.e.x; but, in an elfish way, Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth, The gleesome thoughts of man and maiden both.

Thy voice is fullest at the flush of day, But after midnight there is much to say In weird remembrance of an April oath.

XIV.

And when the moon is seated on the throne Of some white cloud, with her attendants near-- The wondering stars that hold her name in fear-- Oh! then I know that mine Amati's tone Is all for me, and that he stands alone, First of his tribe, belov'd without a peer.

XV.

Yea, this is so, my Lady! A fair form Made of the garner'd relics of a tree, In which of old a dryad of the lea Did live and die. He flourish'd in a storm, And learnt to warble when the days were warm And learnt at night the secrets of the sea.