Chapter 2
You think I am speaking strangely? You cannot understand? Well, let me look down into your eyes, And let me take your hand. I am running away from danger; I am flying before I fall; I am going because with heart and soul I love you--that is all. There, now you are white with anger; I knew it would be so. You should not question a man too close When he tells you he must go.
THROUGH THE VALLEY.
[AFTER JAMES THOMSON.]
As I came through the Valley of Despair, As I came through the valley, on my sight, More awful than the darkness of the night, Shone glimpses of a Past that had been fair, And memories of eyes that used to smile, And wafts of perfume from a vanished isle, As I came through the valley.
As I came through the valley I could see, As I came through the valley, fair and far, As drowning men look up and see a star, The fading shore of my lost Used-to-be; And like an arrow in my heart I heard The last sad notes of Hope's expiring bird, As I came through the valley.
As I came through the valley desolate, As I came through the valley, like a beam Of lurid lightning I beheld a gleam Of Love's great eyes that now were full of hate. Dear God! Dear God! I could bear all but that; But I fell down soul-stricken, dead, thereat, As I came through the valley.
BUT ONE.
The year has but one June, dear friend; The year has but one June; And when that perfect month doth end, The robin's song, though loud, though long, Seems never quite in tune.
The rose, though still its blushing face By bee and bird is seen, May yet have lost that subtle grace-- That nameless spell the winds know Which makes it garden's queen.
Life's perfect June, love's red, red rose, Have burned and bloomed for me. Though still youth's summer sunlight glows; Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find I have no heart for thee.
GUILO.
Yes, yes! I love thee, Guilo; thee alone. Why dost thou sigh, and wear that face of sorrow? The sunshine is to-day's, although it shone On yesterday, and may shine on to-morrow.
I love but thee, my Guilo! be content; The greediest heart can claim but present pleasure. The future is thy God's. The past is spent. To-day is thine; clasp close the precious treasure.
See how I love thee, Guilo! Lips and eyes Could never under thy fond gaze dissemble. I could not feign these passion-laden sighs; Deceiving thee, my pulses would not tremble.
"So I loved Romney." Hush, thou foolish one-- I should forget him wholly wouldst thou let me; Or but remember that his day was done From that supremest hour when first I met thee.
"And Paul?" Well, what of Paul? Paul had blue eyes, And Romney gray, and thine are darkly tender! One finds fresh feelings under change of skies-- A new horizon brings a newer splendor.
_As I love thee_ I never loved before; Believe me, Guilo, for I speak most truly. What though to Romney and to Paul I swore The self-same words; my heart now worships newly.
We never feel the same emotion twice: No two ships ever ploughed the self-same billow; The waters change with every fall and rise; So, Guilo, go contented to thy pillow.
THE DUET.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey, Were singing together a blithe duet, And days it were better I should forget Came suddenly back to me-- Days when life seemed a gay masque ball, And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.
As they sang together, the whole scene fled, The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air, Stately Maud, with her proud blond head, And I seemed to see in her place instead A wealth of blue-black hair, And a face, ah! your face--yours, Lisette; A face it were wiser I should forget.
We were back--well, no matter when or where; But you remember, I know, Lisette. I saw you, dainty and debonair, With the very same look that you used to wear In the days I should forget. And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed, Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.
Two small slippers with big rosettes Peeped out under your kilt skirt there, While we sat smoking our cigarettes (Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets') And singing that self-same air, And between the verses, for interlude, I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude.
You were so full of a subtle file, You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette; You were everything men admire, And there were no fetters to make us tire, For you were--a pretty grisette. But you loved, as only such natures can, With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.
* * * * *
They have ceased singing that old duet, Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey. "You are burning your coat with your cigarette, And _qu' avez vous_, dearest, your lids are wet," Maud says, as she leans o'er me. And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise, "Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes."
LITTLE QUEEN.
Do you remember the name I wore-- The old pet-name of Little Queen-- In the dear, dead days that are no more, The happiest days of our lives, I ween? For we loved with that passionate love of youth That blesses but once with its perfect bliss-- A love that, in spite of its trust and truth, Seems never to thrive in a world like this.
I lived for you, and you lived for me; All was centered in "Little Queen;" And never a thought in our hearts had we That strife or trouble could come between. What utter sinking of self it was! How little we cared for the world of men! For love's fair kingdom and love's sweet laws Were all of the world and life to us then.
But a love like ours was a challenge to Fate; She rang down the curtain and shifted the scene; Yet sometimes now, when the day grows late, I can hear you calling for Little Queen; For a happy home and a busy life Can never wholly crowd out our past; In the twilight pauses that come from strife, You will think of me while life shall last.
And however sweet the voice of fame May sing to me of a great world's praise, I shall long sometimes for the old pet-name That you gave to me in the dear, dead days; And nothing the angel band can say, When I reach the shores of the great Unseen, Can please me so much as on that day To hear your greeting of "Little Queen."
WHEREFORE?
Wherefore in dreams are sorrows borne anew, A healed wound opened, or the past revived? Last night in my deep sleep I dreamed of you; Again the old love woke in me, and thrived On looks of fire, and kisses, and sweet words Like silver waters purling in a stream, Or like the amorous melodies of birds: A dream--a dream!
Again upon the glory of the scene There settled that dread shadow of the cross That, when hearts love too well, falls in between; That warns them of impending woe and loss. Again I saw you drifting from my life, As barques are rudely parted in a stream; Again my heart was torn with awful strife: A dream--a dream!
Again the deep night settled on me there, Alone I groped, and heard strange waters roll, Lost in that blackness of supreme despair That comes but once to any living soul. Alone, afraid, I called your name aloud-- Mine eyes, unveiled, beheld white stars agleam, And lo! awake, I cried, "Thank God, thank God! A dream--a dream!"
DELILAH.
In the midnight of darkness and terror, When I would grope nearer to God, With my back to a record of error And the highway of sin I have trod, There come to me shapes I would banish-- The shapes of the deeds I have done; And I pray and I plead till they vanish-- All vanish and leave me, save one.
That one with a smile like the splendor Of the sun in the middle-day skies-- That one with a spell that is tender-- That one with a dream in her eyes-- Cometh close, in her rare Southern beauty, Her languor, her indolent grace; And my soul turns its back on its duty, To live in the light of her face.
She touches my cheek, and I quiver-- I tremble with exquisite pains; She sighs--like an overcharged river My blood rushes on through my veins', She smiles--and in mad-tiger fashion, As a she-tiger fondles her own, I clasp her with fierceness and passion, And kiss her with shudder and groan.
Once more, in our love's sweet beginning, I put away God and the World; Once more, in the joys of our sinning, Are the hopes of eternity hurled. There is nothing my soul lacks or misses As I clasp the dream shape to my breast; In the passion and pain of her kisses Life blooms to its richest and best.
O ghost of dead sin unrelenting, Go back to the dust and the sod! Too dear and too sweet for repenting, Ye stand between me and my God. If I, by the Throne, should behold you, Smiling up with those eyes loved so well, Close, close in my arms I would fold you, And drop with you down to sweet Hell!
LOVE SONG.
Once in the world's first prime, When nothing lived or stirred-- Nothing but new-born Time, Nor was there even a bird-- The Silence spoke to a Star; But I do not dare repeat What it said to its love afar, It was too sweet, too sweet.
But there, in the fair world's youth, Ere sorrow had drawn breath, When nothing was known but Truth, Nor was there even death, The Star to Silence was wed, And the Sun was priest that day, And they made their bridal-bed High in the Milky Way.
For the great white star had heard Her silent lover's speech; It needed no passionate word To pledge them each to each. Oh, lady fair and far, Hear, oh, hear and apply! Thou, the beautiful Star-- The voiceless Silence, I.
TIME AND LOVE.
Time flies. The swift hours hurry by And speed us on to untried ways; New seasons ripen, perish, die, And yet love stays. The old, old love--like sweet, at first, At last like bitter wine-- I know not if it blest or curst Thy life and mine.
Time flies. In vain our prayers, our tears! We cannot tempt him to delays; Down to the past he bears the years, And yet love stays. Through changing task and varying dream We hear the same refrain, As one can hear a plaintive theme Run through each strain.
Time flies. He steals our pulsing youth; He robs us of our care-free days; He takes away our trust and truth: And yet love stays. O Time! take love! When love is vain, When all its best joys die-- When only its regrets remain-- Let love, too, fly.
CHANGE.
Changed? Yes, I will confess it--I have changed. I do not love in the old fond way. I am your friend still--time has not estranged One kindly feeling of that vanished day.
But the bright glamour which made life a dream, The rapture of that time, its sweet content, Like visions of a sleeper's brain they seem-- And yet I cannot tell you how they went.
Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes Upon me, dear? Is it so very strange That hearts, like all things underneath God's skies Should sometimes feel the influence of change?
The birds, the flowers, the foliage of the trees, The stars which seem so fixed and so sublime, Vast continents and the eternal seas-- All these do change with ever-changing time.
The face our mirror shows us year on year Is not the same; our dearest aim or need, Our lightest thought or feeling, hope or fear, All, all the law of alteration heed.
How can we ask the human heart to stay Content with fancies of Youth's earliest hours? The year outgrows the violets of May, Although, maybe, there are no fairer flowers.
And life may hold no sweeter love than this, Which lies so cold, so voiceless, and so dumb. And shall I miss it, dear? Why, yes, we miss The violets always--till the roses come!
DESOLATION.
I think that the bitterest sorrow or pain Of love unrequited, or cold death's woe, Is sweet compared to that hour when we know That some grand passion is on the wane;
When we see that the glory and glow and grace Which lent a splendor to night and day Are surely fading, and showing the gray And dull groundwork of the commonplace;
When fond expressions on dull ears fall, When the hands clasp calmly without one thrill, When we cannot muster by force of will The old emotions that came at call;
When the dream has vanished we fain would keep, When the heart, like a watch, runs out of gear, And all the savor goes out of the year, Oh, then is the time--if we can--to weep!
But no tears soften this dull, pale woe; We must sit and face it with dry, sad eyes. If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies-- We can only be passive, and let it go.
ISAURA.
Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play? "What play?" Why, this old play of winning hearts! Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way: 'Tis all in vain--I know thee and thine arts.
Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made A study of thee; and while I admire The practised skill with which thy plans are laid, I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.
Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth! When overlong the season runs, I find Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death, After a time do pall upon my mind.
Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes To read the story thou hast read so oft-- Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs, Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?
Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee, The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same; The loves of men but vary in degree-- They find no new expressions for the flame.
Thou must know all they utter ere they speak, As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays. Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak? I think thou must grow weary of their ways.
I pity thee, Isaura! I would be The humblest maiden with her dream untold Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee, And find life's rarest treasures stale and old.
I pity thee; for now, let come what may, Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all. Wherewith can salt be salted? And what way Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?
THE COQUETTE.
Alone she sat with her accusing heart, That, like a restless comrade frightened sleep, And every thought that found her, left a dart That hurt her so, she could not even weep.
Her heart that once had been a cup well filled With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall She knew was empty; though it had not spilled Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.
She stood upon the grave of her dead truth, And saw her soul's bright armor red with rust, And knew that all the riches of her youth Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.
Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn, Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate, Made her cry out that she was ever born, To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.
NEW AND OLD.
I and new love, in all its living bloom, Sat vis-a-vis, while tender twilight hours Went softly by us, treading as on flowers. Then suddenly I saw within the room The old love, long since lying in its tomb. It dropped the cerecloth from its fleshless face And smiled on me, with a remembered grace That, like the noontide, lit the gloaming's gloom.
Upon its shroud there hung the grave's green mould, About it hung the odor of the dead; Yet from its cavernous eyes such light was shed That all my life seemed gilded, as with gold; Unto the trembling new love '"Go," I said "I do not need thee, for I have the old."
NOT QUITE THE SAME.
Not quite the same the spring-time seems to me, Since that sad season when in separate ways Our paths diverged. There are no more such days As dawned for us in that lost time when we Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams; Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems Not quite the same.
Not quite the same is life, since we two parted, Knowing it best to go our ways alone. Fair measures of success we both have known, And pleasant hours, and yet something departed Which gold, nor fame, nor anything we win Can all replace. And either life has been Not quite the same.
Love is not quite the same, although each heart Has formed new ties that are both sweet and true, But that wild rapture, which of old we knew, Seems to have been a something set apart With that lost dream. There is no passion, now, Mixed with this later love, which seems, somehow, Not quite the same.
Not quite the same am I. My inner being Reasons and knows that all is for the best. Yet vague regrets stir always in my breast, As my soul's eyes turn sadly backward, seeing The vanished self that evermore must be, This side of what we call eternity, Not quite the same.
FROM THE GRAVE.
When the first sere leaves of the year were falling, I heard, with a heart that was strangely thrilled, Out of the grave of a dead Past calling, A voice I fancied forever stilled.
All through winter and spring and summer, Silence hung over that grave like a pall, But, borne on the breath of the last sad comer, I listen again to the old-time call.
It is only a love of a by-gone season, A senseless folly that mocked at me A reckless passion that lacked all reason, So I killed it, and hid it where none could see.
I smothered it first to stop its crying, Then stabbed it through with a good sharp blade, And cold and pallid I saw it lying, And deep--ah' deep was the grave I made.
But now I know that there is no killing A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling That which is part of your life and breath.
You may bury it deep, and leave behind you The land, the people, that knew your slain; It will push the sods from its grave, and find you On wastes of water or desert plain.
You may hear but tongues of a foreign people, You may list to sounds that are strange and new; But, clear as a silver bell in a steeple, That voice from the grave shall call to you.
You may rouse your pride, you may use your reason. And seem for a space to slay Love so; But, all in its own good time and season, It will rise and follow wherever you go.
You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling, Alone with your heart, as I sit to-day, And hear that voice from your dead Past calling Out of the graves that you hid away.
A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.
The band was playing a waltz-quadrille, I felt as light as a wind-blown feather, As we floated away, at the caller's will, Through the intricate, mazy dance together. Like mimic armies our lines were meeting, Slowly advancing, and then retreating, All decked in their bright array; And back and forth to the music's rhyme We moved together, and all the time I knew you were going away.
The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill From heart to brain as we gently glided Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille; Parted, met, and again divided-- You drifting one way, and I another, Then suddenly turning and facing each other, Then off in the blithe chasse, Then airily back to our places swaying, While every beat of the music seemed saying That you were going away.
I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill Of mirth and music and love and laughter; For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille, And life will be never the same life after. Oh, that the caller might go on calling, Oh, that the music might go on falling Like a shower of silver spray, While we whirled on to the vast Forever, Where no hearts break, and no ties sever, And no one goes away."
A clamor, a crash, and the band was still; 'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of the measure: The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure. You said good-night, and the spell was over-- Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover-- There was nothing else to say; But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary, And the music was sad, and the hall was dreary, After you went away.
BEPPO.
Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve, Here at my feet, thy dear head on my breast, I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve Or feel the olden ennui and unrest.
What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?-- I, so long sought, so sighed for and so dear? And do I not live but for thee alone? "_Thou hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year_!"
Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me-- 'Tis swallowed in the ocean of the past. Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee, Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast. _Thy_ day is all before thee. Let no cloud, Here in the very morn of our delight, Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud Our sun of love whose radiance is so bright.
"Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be Defeats his own heart's dearest purpose then. No truer truth was ever told to thee-- Who has loved most, he best can love again. If Lippo (and not he alone) has taught The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad? Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought, Look up and smile, my Beppo, and be glad.
TIRED.
I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune.