The Path of Dreams Part 3

As if some G.o.d of old had stooped to love me-- Some star had pierced my darkness with its ray-- I worship thee--an idol throned above me-- Forgetting thou art clay.

Rejoicing in the gift that G.o.d has given, I may forget the Giver. Love, I fear Lest I shall e'en forget to sigh for Heaven-- When heaven for me is here!

VII.

Strange that a love supreme Should be swayed by a petty pride, As a straw might turn aside The swift onflowing tide Of a mighty seaward stream!

I know that the fault was mine, But I cannot, will not speak; How should I, suppliant, meek, His gracious pardon seek-- Tho' the fault were mine--all mine?

Aye, tho' my heart should break, Something--or pride or shame-- Forbids me that I should claim As mine the fault, the blame-- Aye, tho' my heart should break!

VIII.

Last night he came to me, His dark eyes grave and sweet-- (Eyes that I could not meet!) To crave my pardon--_mine!_ With that kingly courtesy Which makes his least deed fine.

What fiend took hold on me?

I would nor speak nor heed, Tho' he bent his pride to plead-- (He, all unused to sue!) Though he sought full tenderly For a pardon not _his_ due.

Fool! to have played with fire-- Had I not full often heard How when his wrath was stirred It burst all bounds and leapt Higher and ever higher Like flames by the storm-wind swept?

Yet--tho' his face was white With a pa.s.sion that shook his soul-- Not once did he waive control, Tho' his heart to its depths was stirred-- He leashed his wrath that night Nor uttered one bitter word.

Pride held me stubbornly dumb, Stilling what words I would say, While I flung my heart's treasure away, While I tampered with fire--to my cost; Till I knew the ultimate end had come-- I had matched pride with love--and lost!

IX.

What poisoned pen has written The words that bar my breath; What hard, harsh hand has smitten My soul with death?

"_Love, my love_"--these the words I read-- "_The vision and dream of a life have died.

Hurt to the heart by the words you said,_ Angered, stung by a wounded pride, Mad with the thought that your love was dead-- I have wedded a loveless, unloved bride-- Would I had died instead!_"

My heart refuses to understand The words that burn my brain; Palsied, stunned by a felling blow Struck by a cherished hand, I am all too numb for pain; Dead to a deathless woe, Helpless to understand, Shall I ever feel again?

X.

Awake, alive to pain! The first steel gleam of morn Stabs deep the heart I thought had shrunk to dust, The love I prayed might die to loveless scorn Awakes and cries ... Ah, G.o.d, how is it just A fault so slight such meed of pain should pay, That one mad word in pride and anger spoken Should leave two lives forever crushed and broken, Should plait a scourge to lash my soul for aye?

How can a just G.o.d see men suffer thus?-- Unheedful of the cosmic cry of pain, Unmoved by all the pangs that torture us, Knowing our prayers and tears alike are vain-- Like to a wanton boy who feels no thrill Of pity for the weak his strength holds thrall, Who pins a helpless b.u.t.terfly against a wall, Watching the bright wings flutter and grow still.

We are the sport of some malignant Power Who nails us to our crosses, hard and fast, Who sees us flutter for a little hour, Struggle and suffer ... and grow still at last; Who hears untouched the ceaseless, cosmic groan Wrung from his creatures' tortured lips alway; He will not hear or heed! What need to pray?

There is no hand to help. We stand alone.

Father, forgive! I know not what I say, Frenzied, tortured, torn on the rack of pain; Teach these pain-writhen lips once more to pray-- Help me to trust again!

XI.

A year! How slight a s.p.a.ce When winged with ecstasy!

(An aeon dark to me.) He has brought her home--G.o.d lend me grace!

To-night in the throng I shall see his face-- He has long forgotten me.

A year! I have learned to smile, I have taught my eyes to lie, I have lived and laughed and sung--the while I have only longed to die.

XII.

I have seen him once again, There in the throng with his wife (An eagle matched with a pitiful wren!) Bitter in sooth has his portion been-- Chained to a clog for life!

Strange that our eyes as of yore should meet And hold each other a breathless s.p.a.ce, That the dawn-light of old should illumine his face, That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet, Touched with the old-time tender grace.

But his eyes were haggard and old with pain (Traitors to thwart his resolute will!) They told me the struggle was vain--all vain!

He loves me--loves me still.

XIII.

Cruel! that I should be glad That he loves and suffers still, Yet how should my soul be sad That his pa.s.sionate, resolute will Cannot crush the love that is stronger than he, The love that is all for me!

The year has left its trace (Cover it how he will!) On the proud, impa.s.sive face And I know how he suffers still-- Thrall to a love that is stronger than he, A love that is all for me.

Surely, ah surely, I know I who have known his love, I who have loved him so, What such a bond must prove, Linked to a loveless, unloved wife, Chained to a clog for life!

XIV.

She loves him not, they say, Save for his lands and gold; She is narrow, selfish, cold, Stabbing and wounding his soul each day, Growing further and further away From the heart it was hers to hold.

Yet not all blameless he, A woman is quick to feel What man would fain conceal; Surely she can but see That naught to his life is she, Nay--nor can ever be!

I am happier--happier far--than he; He is meshed in a galling silken hold, Bound with a jewelled band of gold; While I, at least, am free.

And I know what his daily life must be.

Linked with a nature paltry, slight, He with his generous, kingly soul, Stung and goaded past all control By a thousand petty barbs of venom and spite.

Once, but once have we met, And we spoke of trivial things, Of the changes a twelvemonth brings, Of late Summer, lingering yet...

(Ah, how should a heart that has loved forget?) Traitors ever to thwart his will His eyes confirm what I half divine.

A bitter, bootless victory mine, He cannot choose but to love me still!

XV.

Whose was the fault, the blame?

She has fled and left him free, Free! but a stain of shame Rests on the proud old name.

At a bitter cost she has set him free-- Free! with a blemished fame.

And he with the pride of his race, With a resolute, calm control, Locks in his heart the heart's disgrace, Shows of his shame no subtlest trace, Hiding the hurt of a stricken soul 'Neath the calm of a pa.s.sionless face.