Yesterdays Part 16

Delsarte should be able to speak in the table-- 'Expression' may lie in a light loaf of bread.

Though hard be the labour, the end recompenses-- Though weary the journey, reward is the goal.

For the soul of a man must be reached through his senses, As the senses of woman are reached through her soul.

Speak first to his spirit, he never will hear it; Speak first to his body, his soul will reply; The mortal man fare for, his appet.i.tes care for, And lo! he will follow your footsteps on high.

Love born in the boudoir oft dies in the kitchen, The failure of marriage oft starts in the soup.

The stomach appeal to, and men's heart you steal to-- Would you reach to the last? To the first you must stoop.

I WONDER WHY

Do you remember that glorious June When we were lovers, you and I?

Something there was in the robin's tune, Something there was in earth and sky, That was never before, and never since then.

I wonder why.

Do you remember the bridge we crossed, And lingered to see the ships go by, With snowy sails to the free winds tossed?

I never pa.s.s that bridge but I sigh With a sense at my heart as of something lost.

I wonder why.

Do you remember the song we sung, Under the beautiful starlit sky?

The world was bright, and our hearts were young-- I cannot forget though I try and try.

How you smiled in my eyes while the echoes rung.

I wonder why.

Do you remember how debonair The new moon shone when we said good-bye?

How it listened and smiled when we parted there?

I shall hate the new moon until I die-- Hate it for ever, nor think it fair.

I wonder why.

A WOMAN'S HAND

All day long there has haunted me A spectre out of my lost youth-land.

Because I happened last night to see A woman's beautiful snow-white hand.

Like part of a statue broken away, And carefully kept in a velvet case, On the crimson rim of her box it lay; The folds of the curtain hid her face.

Years had drifted between us two, In another clime, in another land, We had lived and parted, and yet I knew That cruelly beautiful perfect hand.

The ringless beauty of fingers fine, The sea-sh.e.l.l tint of their taper tips, The sight of them stirred my blood like wine, Oh, to hold them again to my lips!

To feel their tender touch on my hair, Their mute caress, and their clinging hold; Oh for the past that was green and fair, With a cloudless sky, and a sun of gold!

But the sun has set, and a dead delight Shadows my life with a dull despair, Oh why did I see that hand of white, Like a marble ornament lying there?

PRESENTIMENT

As unseen spheres cast shadows on the Earth Some unknown cause depresses me to-night.

The house is full of laughter and sweet mirth, The day has held but pleasure and delight.

Down in the parlour some one blithely sings; A chime of laughter echoes in the hall; But all unseen by other eyes, strange things Rat-like do seem to glide along the wall.

I rise, and laugh, and say I will not care; I call them idle fancies, one and all.

And yet, suspended by a single hair, The sword of Fate seems trembling soon to fall.

I leave the house, and walk the lighted street; And mingle with the pleasure-seeking throng.

And close behind me follow spectre feet That pause with me, or with me move along.

I seek my room, and close and bolt the door; I draw the curtain, and turn up the light; But close beside me, closer than before, This nameless _something_ stands, but out of sight.

Ye mystic messenger of woe to come, Ye nameless nothing called 'Presentiment,'

Take form and face me; be no longer dumb, But tell who thou art, and wherefore sent.

TWO ROOMS

One room is full of luxury, and dim With that soft moonlit radiance of light That she best loves, who sits and dreams of him Her heart has crowned as knight.

And one is bare, and comfortless, and dim With that strange, fitful glimmer that is shed By candles casting shadows weird and grim, Above the sheeted dead.

In one, a round and beautiful young face Is full of wordless rapture; and so fair You know her breast is joy's best dwelling-place; You know sweet love is there.

In one, there lies a white and wasted face Whereon is frozen such supreme despair, You need but look to know what left the trace; You know love _has been_ there.

To one he comes! She leans her head of gold Upon his breast and bids him no more roam.

Ah G.o.d! Ah G.o.d! and one lies stark and cold, Because he ceased to come.

THREE AT THE OPERA

Last night the house was crowded. Were you there?

You thought our box held only two, maybe-- Myself and chaperon, a matron fair.

There was another whom you did not see.