The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 98

Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"TEARS, IDLE TEARS"

From "The Princess"

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The cas.e.m.e.nt slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE PET NAME

"... the name Which from their lips seemed a caress."

---Miss Milford's "Dramatic Scenes"

I have a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear.

It never did to pages wove For gay romance belong; It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa" unto love, "Orinda" unto song.

Though I write books, it will be read Upon the leaves of none, And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, Across my funeral-stone.

This name, whoever chance to call, Perhaps your smile may win: Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes and feel withal The sudden tears within.

Is there a leaf, that greenly grows Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game, But time incrusteth round With sad a.s.sociate thoughts the same?

And so to me my very name a.s.sumes a mournful sound.

My brother gave that name to me When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill; And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof: the mirth being done, He calls me by it still.

Nay, do not smile! I hear in it What none of you can hear,-- The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat Around, our human cheer.

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss My sisters' woodland glee, My father's praise I did not miss When stooping down, he cared to kiss The poet at his knee,--

And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping,-- To some I nevermore can say An answer till G.o.d wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping.

My name to me a sadness wears: No murmurs cross my mind-- Now G.o.d be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind.

Now G.o.d be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet: Now G.o.d be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret.

Earth saddens, never shall remove Affections purely given; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And heighten it with Heaven.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

THREESCORE AND TEN

Who reach their threescore years and ten, As I have mine, without a sigh, Are either more or less than men-- Not such am I.

I am not of them; life to me Has been a strange, bewildering dream, Wherein I knew not things that be From things that seem.

I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing, And had one gift, when I was young-- The impulse and the power to sing, And so I sung.

To have a place in the high choir Of poets, and deserve the same-- What more could mortal man desire Than poet's fame?

I sought it long, but never found; The choir so full was and so strong The jubilant voices there, they drowned My simple song.

Men would not hear me then, and now I care not, I accept my fate, When white hairs thatch the furrowed brow Crowns come too late!

The best of life went long ago From me; it was not much at best; Only the love that young hearts know, The dear unrest.

Back on my past, through gathering tears, Once more I cast my eyes, and see Bright shapes that in my better years Surrounded me!

They left me here, they left me there, Went down dark pathways, one by one-- The wise, the great, the young, the fair; But I went on.

And I go on! And bad or good, The old allotted years of men I have endured as best I could, Threescore and ten!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

RAIN ON THE ROOF

When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn; And I feel her fond look on me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother-- A serene angelic pair-- Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes, to thrill me With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her With a pa.s.sion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain.