Maurine and Other Poems Part 26

Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white b.u.t.terflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eye-lids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves--you understand.

Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall--

As we kneel by him and say, "Dreams to dreams," and turn away.

Those grave diggers, Doubt, Distrust, They will lower him to the dust.

Let us part here with a kiss, You go that way, I go this.

Since we buried Love to-day We will walk a separate way.

LITTLE BLUE HOOD.

Every morning and every night There pa.s.ses our window near the street, A little girl with an eye so bright, And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet; The daintiest, jauntiest little miss That ever any one longed to kiss.

She is neat as wax, and fresh to view, And her look is wholesome and clean, and good.

Whatever her gown, her hood is blue, And so we call her our "Little Blue Hood,"

For we know not the name of the dear little la.s.s, But we call to each other to see her pa.s.s.

"Little Blue Hood is coming now!"

And we watch from the window while she goes by, She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow, And a fearless look in her long-lashed eye; And a certain dignity wedded to grace, Seems to envelop her form and face.

Every morning, in sun or rain, She walks by the window with sweet, grave air, And never guesses behind the pane We two are watching and thinking her fair; Lovingly watching her down the street, Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.

Somebody ties that hood of blue Under the face so fair to see, Somebody loves her, beside we two, Somebody kisses her--why can't we?

Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair, Are you glad we love you, or don't you care?

NO SPRING.

Up from the South come the birds that were banished, Frightened away by the presence of frost.

Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished, Back to the forest the leaves that were lost.

Over the hillside the carpet of splendor, Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; Along the horizon, the tints that were tender, Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.

Only the mountains' high summits are h.o.a.ry, To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key.

Once more the gleaming sh.o.r.e lists to the story Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea.

All things revive that in Winter time perished, The rose buds again in the light o' the sun, All that was beautiful, all that was cherished, Sweet things and dear things and all things--save one.

Late, when the year and the roses were lying Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, Down in the dust fell a love that was dying, And the snow piled above it, and made it a tomb.

Lo! now! the roses are budded for blossom-- Lo! now! the Summer is risen again.

Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom?

Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?

Life without love, is a year without Summer, Heart without love, is a wood without song.

Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer, Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long?

Rise! ah, thou canst not! the rose-tree that sheddest Its beautiful leaves, in the Spring time may bloom, But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest, Love buried once, rises not from the tomb.

Green things may grow on the hillside and heather, Birds seek the forest and build there and sing.

All things revive in the beautiful weather, But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.

LIPPO.

Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes-- 'T was thine own hand which dealt dear Love's death-blow.

I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then Thy heart was like a covered golden cup Always above my eager lip held up.

I fancied thou wert not as other men.

I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine, Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled Its precious contents. Even to the lees Were offered to me, saying, "Drink of these!"

And when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

No word was left unsaid, no act undone, To prove to me thou wert my abject slave.

Ah, Love! hadst thou been wise enough to save One little drop of that sweet wine--but one--

I still had loved thee, longing for it then.

But even the cup is mine. I look within, And find it holds not one last drop to win, And cast it down.--Thou art as other men.

MIDSUMMER.

After the May time, and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat.

When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come that season, O my lady, my worshiped one, When over the stars of Pride and Reason Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun.

Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame.

It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses and wither away.

From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing, From the isle of pain no breeze is sent.

Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.