The Poems Of Henry Timrod Part 8

And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid.

This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake:

The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head;

The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South.

Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad;

And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin.

Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across

The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown;

Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray.

One might suppose your life had pa.s.sed Unvexed by any troubling blast;

And such--for all that I foreknow-- May be the truth! The deeper woe!

A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird;

But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech;

In the white courts beyond the stars The n.o.blest brow is seamed with scars;

And they on earth who've wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host.

Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o'er a golden bed,

With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a n.o.ble use;

Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear,

And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak.

You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope:

The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother's holy love;

And always at your soul's demand A brother's, sister's heart and hand.

Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home;

And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends.

What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss?

And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face,

And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again,

And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray?

At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace,

Hath much to try a woman's heart, And you but play a painful part.

The world around, with little ruth, Still laughs at maids who have not youth,

And, right or wrong, the old maid rests The victim of its paltry jests,

And still is doomed to meet and bear Its pitying smile or furtive sneer.

These are indeed but petty things, And yet they touch some hearts like stings.

But I acquit you of the shame Of being unresisting game;

For you are of such tempered clay As turns far stronger shafts away,

And all that foes or fools could guide Would only curl that lip of pride.

How then, O weary one! explain The sources of that hidden pain?

Alas! you have divined at length How little you have used your strength,

Which, with who knows what human good, Lies buried in that maidenhood,

Where, as amid a field of flowers, You have but played with April showers.

Ah! we would wish the world less fair, If Spring alone adorned the year,

And Autumn came not with its fruit, And Autumn hymns were ever mute.

So I remark without surprise That, as the unvarying season flies,

From day to night and night to day, You sicken of your endless May.

In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss,

And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might.

Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin--

Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid--

You feel that you must pa.s.s from earth But half-acquainted with its worth,