Yesterdays Part 7

ESTRANGED

So well I knew your habits and your ways, That like a picture painted on the skies, At the sweet closing of the summer days, You stand before my eyes.

I see you on the old verandah there, While slow the shadows of the twilight fall, I see the very carving on the chair You tilt against the wall.

The West grows dim. The faithful evening star Comes out and sheds its tender patient beam.

I almost catch the scent of your cigar, As you sit there and dream.

But dream of what? I know your outward life-- Your ways, your habits; know they have not changed.

But has one thought of me survived the strife Since we two were estranged?

I know not of the workings of your heart; And yet I sometimes make myself believe That I perchance do hold some little part Of reveries at eve.

I think you could not wholly put away The memories of a past that held so much.

As birds fly homeward at the close of day, A word, a kiss, a touch,

Must sometimes come and nestle in your breast And murmur to you of the long ago.

Oh do they stir you with a vague unrest?

What would I give to know!

BEFORE AND AFTER

Before I lost my love, he said to me: 'Sweetheart, I like deep azure tints on you.'

But I, perverse as any girl will be Who has too many lovers, wore not blue.

He said, 'I love to see my lady's hair Coiled low like Clytie's--with no wanton curl.'

But I, like any silly, wilful girl, Said, 'Donald likes it high,' and wore it there.

He said, 'I wish, love, when you sing to me, You would sing sweet, sad things--they suit your voice.'

I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee-- Saying, 'This song, or that, is Harold's choice.'

But now I wear no colour--none but blue.

Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.

He does not know it, but I strive to do Whatever in his eyes would make me fair.

I sing no songs but those he loved the best.

(Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strain Is but the echo of the voice of pain, That sings so mournfully within my breast.)

I would not wear a ribbon or a curl For Donald, if he died from my neglect-- Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girl Learns true love's worth, but--when her life is wrecked.

AN EMPTY CRIB

Beside a crib that holds a baby's stocking, A tattered picture book, a broken toy, A sleeping mother dreams that she is rocking Her fair-haired cherub boy.

Upon the cradle's side her light touch keeping, She gently rocks it, crooning low a song; And smiles to think her little one is sleeping, So peacefully and long.

Step light, breathe low, break not her rapturous dreaming, Wake not the sleeper from her trance of joy, For never more save in sweet slumber-seeming Will she watch o'er her boy.

G.o.d pity her when from her dream Elysian She wakes to see the empty crib, and weep; Knowing her joy was but a sleeper's vision, Tread lightly--let her sleep.

THE ARRIVAL

'What do I hear at the window?

Did some one call me?' Nay, It was only the wind, my darling, Grieving the night away.

Only the wind and the cas.e.m.e.nt Talking as two friends may.

'But now I hear some one speaking, Oh listen and you will hear.'

It is only the night bird calling To her mate in sudden fear.

Only the dead leaves falling; The last lone leaves of the year.

'But now there is some one coming, I hear a step on the stair.'

Nay, nay, it is nothing, darling, Rest, and be free from care.

I have just been out in the hallway, I am sure there is no one there.

Never a knock at the doorway, Never a step in the hall, Yet the King is coming, coming,-- How lightly his footsteps fall.

A sigh, and a straightening downward-- And silence is over all.

GO BACK

When winds of March by the springtime bidden Over the great earth race and shout, Forth from my breast where it long hath hidden My same old sorrow comes creeping out.

I think each winter--its life is ended, For it makes no stir while the snows lie deep.

I say to myself, 'Its soul has blended Into the past where it lay asleep.'

But as soon as the sun, like some fond lover, Smiles and kisses the earth's round cheeks, This sad, sad sorrow throws off its cover, And out of the depths of its anguish, speaks.

In every bud by the wayside springing It finds a sword for its half-healed wounds; In every note that the thrush is singing It hears the saddest of minor sounds.

In the cup of gold that the sun is spilling It finds, unsweetened, a drop of gall; It sees through the warp that the Spring is filling, The black threads twining in under it all.

Go back, O spring! till pain, forsaking These haunts of sorrow, shall sink to rest.