Yesterdays Part 6

A MAN'S REVERIE

How cold the old porch seems. A dreary chill Creeps upward from the river at twilight, And yet, I like to linger here at night, And dream the summer tarries with us still.

The summer and the summer guests, or guest.

(Men rarely dream in plurals.) Over there Beyond the pillars, stands the rustic chair, As bare and empty as a robin's nest.

No pretty head reclines its golden bands Against the back. No playful winds disclose Distracting glimpses of embroidered hose: No palm leaf waves in dainty, dangerous hands.

How cold it is! That star up yonder gleams A white ice sickle from the heavenly eaves.

That bleak wind from the river sighs and grieves, Perchance o'er some poor fellow's broken dreams.

Come in, and shut the door, and leave that star To watch above the lonely portico.

Summer and summer guests and dreams must go.

Well, Fate was kind to leave me my cigar.

WHEN MY SWEET LADY SINGS

When she, my lady, smiles, I feel as one who, lost in darksome wilds, Sees suddenly the sun in middle sky Shining upon him like a great glad eye.

When my sweet lady smiles.

When she, my lady laughs, I feel as one who some elixir quaffs; Some nameless nectar, made of wines of suns, And through my veins a subtle iveresse runs.

When my sweet lady laughs.

And when my lady talks, I am as one who by a brooklet walks, Some sweet-tongued brooklet, which the whole long day, Holds converse with the birds along the way.

When my loved lady talks.

And when my lady sings, Oh then I hear the beat of silver wings; All that is earthly from beneath me slips, And in the liquid cadence of her lips I float, so near the Infinite, I seem Lost in the glory of a white starred dream.

When my sweet lady sings.

SPECTRES

How terrible these nights are when alone With our scarred hearts, we sit in solitude, And some old sorrow, to the world unknown, Does suddenly with silent steps intrude.

After the guests departed, and the light Burned dimly in my room, there came to me, As noiselessly as shadows of the night, The spectre of a woe that used to be.

Out of the gruesome darkness and the gloom I saw it peering; and, in still despair, I watched it gliding swift across the room, Until it came and stood beside my chair.

Why, need I tell thee what its shape or name?

Thou hast thy secret hidden from the light: And be it sin or sorrow, woe or shame, Thou dost not like to meet it in the night.

And yet it comes. As certainly as death, And far more cruel since death ends all pain, On lonesome nights we feel its icy breath, And turn and face the thing we fancied slain.

With shrinking hearts, we view the ghastly shape; We look into its eyes with fear and dread, And know that we can never more escape Until the grave doth fold us with the dead.

On the swift maelstrom of the eddying world We hurl our woes, and think they are no more.

But round and round by dizzy billows whirled, They reach out sinewy arms and swim to sh.o.r.e.

ONLY A LINE

Only a line in the paper, That somebody read aloud, At a table of languid boarders, To the dull indifferent crowd.

Markets and deaths--and a marriage: And the reader read them all.

How could he know a hope died then, And was wrapped in a funeral pall.

Only a line in the paper, Read in a casual way, But the glow went out of one young life, And left it cold and grey.

Colder than bleak December, Greyer than walls of rock, But the reader paused, and the room grew full Of laughter and idle talk.

If one slipped off to her chamber, Why, who could dream or know, That one brief line in the paper Had sent her away with her woe?

Away into lonely sorrow, To bitter and blinding tears; Only a line in the paper, But it meant such desolate years.

PARTING

Lean down, and kiss me, O my love, my own; The day is near when thy fond heart will miss me; And o'er my low green bed, with bitter moan, Thou wilt lean down, but cannot clasp or kiss me.

How strange it is, that I, so loving thee, And knowing we must part, perchance to-morrow, Do comfort find, thinking how great will be Thy lonely desolation, and thy sorrow.

And stranger--sadder, O mine own other part, That I should grudge thee some surcease of weeping; Why do I not rejoice, that in thy heart, Sweet love will bloom again when I am sleeping?

Nay, make no promise. I would place no bar Upon thy future, even wouldst thou let me.

Thou hast, thou dost, well love me, like a man: And, like a man, in time thou wilt forget me.

Why should I care, so near the Infinite-- Why should I care, that thou wilt cease to miss me?

O G.o.d! these earthly ties are knit so tight-- Quick, quick, lean lower, O my love, and kiss me!