Yesterdays Part 4

See him quake and see him tremble, See him gasp for breath.

Nay, dear, he does not dissemble, This is really Death.

He is weak, and worn, and wasted, Bear him to his bier.

All there is of life he's tasted-- He has lived a year.

He has pa.s.sed his day of glory, All his blood is cold, He is wrinkled, thin, and h.o.a.ry, He is very old.

Just a leaf's life in the wild wood, Is a love's life, dear.

He has reached his second childhood When he's lived a year.

Long ago he lost his reason, Lost his trust and faith-- Better far in his first season Had he met with death.

Let us have no pomp or splendour, No vain pretence here.

As we bury, grave, yet tender, Love that's lived a year.

All his strength and all his pa.s.sion, All his pride and truth, These were wasted, spendthrift fashion, In his fiery youth.

Since for him life holds no beauty Let us shed no tear, As we do the last sad duty-- Love has lived a year.

INCOMPLETE

The summer is just in its grandest prime, The earth is green and the skies are blue; But where is the lilt of the olden time, When life was a melody set to rhyme, And dreams were so real they all seemed true?

There is sun on the meadow, and blooms on the bushes, And never a bird but is mad with glee; But the pulse that bounds, and the blood that rushes, And the hope that soars, and the joy that gushes, Are lost for ever to you and me.

There are dawns of amber and amethyst; There are purple mountains, and pale pink seas That flush to crimson where skies have kist; But out of life there is something missed-- Something better than all of these.

We miss the faces we used to know, The smiling lips and the eyes of truth.

We miss the beauty and warmth and glow Of the love that brightened our long ago, And ah! we miss our youth.

ON RAINY DAYS

On rainy days old dreams arise, From graves where they have lonely lain; With wan white cheeks and mournful eyes, They press against the window pane.

One dream is bolder than the rest: She enters at the door and stays, A welcome yet unbidden guest On rainy days.

On rainy days, my dream and I Turn back the hands of memory's books: We sup on pleasures long gone by-- We drink of unforgotten brooks; We ransack garrets of the Past, We sing old songs, we play old plays; While hurrying Time looks on aghast, On rainy days.

On rainy days, my ghostly dreams Come clothed in garments like the mist, But through that vapoury veiling, gleams The l.u.s.trous eyes my lips have kissed.

A radiant head leans on my heart, We walk in well-remembered ways; But oh! the sorrow when we part, On rainy days.

GERALDINE

Just as the sun went bathing in a sea Of liquid amber, flecked with caps of gold, I told The sweet old story unto Geraldine, my Queen, Who long hath made the whole of life for me.

But though she smiled upon me yesterday, And heaven seemed near because she was so kind, I find She held me but as one of many men; and then Dismissed me in her proud, yet gracious way.

Ah, Geraldine! my lady of sweet arts, There waits for thee not very far away, a day When thou shalt waken out of tranquil sleep, and weep Such bitter tears as spring from anguished hearts.

Thou shalt look in thy mirror with dismay To find upon each feature of thy face, the trace Of time, the lover who shall follow thee, and see Thy rare youth slipping suddenly away.

So self-a.s.sured, so certain of thy power, It shall come on thee with a swift surprise. Thine eyes Appalled, shall fall upon each certain, strange, sad change, And rob thee of thy triumph in an hour.

And when that day shall come, as come it must, You then will think of me, sweet Geraldine, my Queen, And of the faithful heart there tossed away one day, Before thy dead sea apples turned to dust.

To dust and ashes, leaving nothing more, That day will come, my lady, I can wait; and Fate Shall right my wrongs. Thou smilest, Geraldine, my Queen!

Ah well, so have fair women smiled before.

ONLY IN DREAMS

How strange are dreams. Last night I dreamed about you.

All that old bitterness of loss and pain, The desolation of my lot without you, The keen regret, all, all came back again.

Again I faced that terrible old sorrow; Too numb to weep, too cowardly to pray.

Again the blankness of a dread to-morrow Filled me with sickly terror and dismay.

I woke in tears; but lo! a moment after, When every vestige of my dream was fled, I broke the silence of my room with laughter, To think sleep had revived a thing so dead.

Thank G.o.d, that only in the realms of fancy Can that old sorrow wake again to strife.

No fate is strong enough--no necromancy-- To make it stir one pulse of my calm life.

My heart is light, my lot is blest without you, Our early sorrows are not what they seem, Now in my slumber, if I dream about you I wake to laugh at such an idle dream.

CIRc.u.mSTANCE

Talk not to me of souls that do conceive Sublime ideals, but, deterred by Fate And bound by circ.u.mstances, sit desolate, And long for heights they never can achieve.

It is not so. That which we most desire, With _understanding_, we at last obtain, In part or whole. I hold there is no rain, No deluge, that can quench a heavenly fire.

Show me thy labour, I straightway will name The nature of thy thoughts. Who bends the bow, And lets the arrow from the strained string go, Strikes somewhere near the object of his aim.

We build our ships from timbers of the brain; With products of the soul we load the hold; Where lies the blame if they bring back no gold, Or if they spring a leak upon the main?