Chapter 31

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact - Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore Will you teach me, Barbara?

In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again. There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!

Alexander Smith [1830-1867]

SONG

When I am dead, my dearest. Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember And haply may forget.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

SARRAZINE'S SONG TO HER DEAD LOVER From "Chaitivel"

Hath any loved you well, down there, Summer or winter through? Down there, have you found any fair Laid in the grave with you? Is death's long kiss a richer kiss Than mine was wont to be - Or have you gone to some far bliss And quite forgotten me?

What soft enamoring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charmed death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? - A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade; But worlds away from me, alas, Down there where you are laid?

My bright hair's waved and wasted gold, What is it now to thee - Whether the rose-red life I hold Or white death holdeth me? Down there you love the grave's own green, And evermore you rave Of some sweet seraph you have seen Or dreamt of in the grave.

There you shall lie as you have lain, Though in the world above, Another life you live again, Loving again your love: Is it not sweet beneath the palm? Is not the warm day rife With some long mystic golden calm Better than love and life?

The broad quaint odorous leaves like hands Weaving the fair day through, Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands, While death weaves sleep for you; And many a strange rich breathing sound Ravishes morn and noon: And in that place you must have found Death a delicious swoon.

Hold me no longer for a word I used to say or sing: Ah, long ago you must have heard So many a sweeter thing: For rich earth must have reached your heart And turned the faith to flowers; And warm wind stolen, part by part, Your soul through faithless hours.

And many a soft seed must have won Soil of some yielding thought, To bring a bloom up to the sun That else had ne'er been brought; And, doubtless, many a passionate hue Hath made that place more fair, Making some passionate part of you Faithless to me down there.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1884]

LOVE AND DEATH

In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea, And the boughs sobbed together, Death came and spake to me: "Those red drops of thy heart I have come to take from thee; As the storm sheds the rose, so thy love shall broken be," Said Death to me.

Then I stood straight and fearless while the rain was in the wave, And I spake low and tearless: "When thou hast made my grave, Those red drops from my heart then thou shalt surely have; But the rose keeps its bloom, as I my love will save All for my grave."

In the wild autumn weather a dread sword slipped from its sheath; While the boughs sobbed together, I fought a fight with Death, And I vanquished him with prayer, and I vanquished him by faith: Now the summer air is sweet with the rose's fragrant breath That conquered Death.

Rosa Mulholland [18 -1921]

TO ONE IN PARADISE

Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine: A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out of the Future cries, "On! on!" - but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more - no more - no more - (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams - In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride, In the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

FOR ANNIE

Thank Heaven! the crisis - The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last - And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length: But no matter - I feel I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead - Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart - ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness - the nausea - The pitiless pain - Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain - With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated - the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst - I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst,

- Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground - From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed - And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses - Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies - A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies - With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie - Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast - Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm - To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed (Knowing her love), That you fancy me dead - And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed (With her love at my breast), That you fancy me dead - That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie - It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie - With the thought, of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

TELLING THE BEES

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed, - To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now, - the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before, - The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, - Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on: - "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

A TRYST

I will not break the tryst, my dear, That we have kept so long, Though winter and its snows are here, And I've no heart for song.

You went into the voiceless night; Your path led far away. Did you forget me, Heart's Delight, As night forgets the day?

Sometimes I think that you would speak If still you held me dear; But space is vast, and I am weak - Perchance I do not hear.

Surely, howe'er remote the star Your wandering feet may tread, When I shall pass the sundering bar Our souls must still be wed.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY

Round among the quiet graves, When the sun was low, Love went grieving, - Love who saves: Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke, At his tender call Birds into sweet singing broke, And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod All Love's dead arose, And went flying up to God By a way Love knows.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

HEAVEN

Only to find Forever, blest By thine encircling arm; Only to lie beyond unrest In passion's dreamy calm!

Only to meet and never part, To sleep and never wake, - Heart unto heart and soul to soul, Dead for each other's sake.

Martha Gilbert Dickinson [18 -

JANETTE'S HAIR

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, Let me tangle a hand in your hair - my pet; For the world to me had no daintier sight Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white; Your beautiful dark brown hair - my pet.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, It was finer than silk of the floss - my pet; 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed - 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world - my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, It was sinewy, bristled, and brown - my pet; But warmly and softly it loved to caress Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, Your beautiful plenty of hair - my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette. Revealing the old, dear story - my pet; They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, And they matched with your golden hair - my pet.

Your lips - but I have no words, Janette - They were fresh as the twitter of birds - my pet, When the spring is young, and the roses are wet, With the dewdrops in each red bosom set, And they suited your gold brown hair - my pet.

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 'Twas a silken and golden snare - my pet; But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore The right to continue your slave evermore, With my fingers enmeshed in your hair - my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair - my pet, In the darkness of desolate years I moan, And my tears fall bitterly over the stone That covers your golden hair - my pet.

Charles Graham Halpine [1829-1868]

THE DYING LOVER

The grass that is under me now Will soon be over me, Sweet; When you walk this way again I shall not hear your feet.

You may walk this way again, And shed your tears like dew; They will be no more to me then Than mine are now to you!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

"WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME"

When the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying; When not any wind that blows, Summer blooms nor winter snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, "How kind she was," You will say, "How true she was," When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth's warm bosom, - While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore, for anything, You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders in my cause, That shall speak me as I was - When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved, in my sorrow Very patient, I can wait, Knowing that, or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan "Alas! Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was" - When the grass grows over me!

Ina Donna Coolbrith [1842-1928]

GIVE LOVE TO-DAY

When the lean, gray grasses Cover me, bury me deep, No sea wind that passes Shall break my sleep.

When you come, my lover, Sorrowful-eyed to me, Earth mine eyes will cover; I shall not see.

Though with sad words splendid, Praising, you call me dear, It will be all ended; I shall not hear.

You may live love's riot Laughingly over my head, But I shall lie quiet With the gray dead.

Love, you will not wake me With all your singing carouse. Nor your dancing shake me In my dark house.

Though you should go weeping, Sorrowful for my sake, Fain to break my sleeping, I could not wake.

Now, ere time destroy us - Shadows beneath and above; Death has no song joyous, Nor dead men love -

Now, while deep-eyed, golden, Love on the mountain sings, Let him be close holden; Fetter his wings.

Love, nor joy nor sorrow Troubles the end of day. Leave the Fates to-morrow; Give Love to-day.

Ethel Talbot [18 -

UNTIL DEATH

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, And love no other till thy days shall end - Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go - Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen, Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress; If, after death, my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me, Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves - a tardy recompense - But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave, And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets Above my breast will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

FLORENCE VANE

I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again; I renew in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain - My hopes, and thy derision, Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told - That spot - the hues Elysian Of sky and plain - I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under - Alas, the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley By young graves weep; The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep. May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816-1850]

"IF SPIRITS WALK"

If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow The slant footpath where we were wont to go, Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow. Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, If spirits walk.

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so As some one's fingers once were used to play - That hour when birds leave song, and children pray, Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know If spirits walk.

Sophie Jewett [1861-1909]

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near, Under the snow; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet; All my life's buried here - Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

LYRIC Ah, dans ces mornes sejours Les jamais sont les toujours. - Paul Verlaine

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he; Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare. Think you I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we, were fated Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low-lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land. A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues and leagues of yellow sand, The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, lily-white, Stole forth among the branches gray; About the coming of the light, They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the grass is green, My heart is colder than the clay!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night, dear friend! I say good-night to thee Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white, Bridging all space between us, it may be. Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.

For, lying low upon my couch, and still, The fever flush evanished from my face, I heard them whisper softly, "'Tis His will; Angels will give her happier resting-place!"

And so from sight of tears that fell like rain, And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low, I turned my white face to the window-pane, To say good-night to thee before I go.

Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die;

If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill, I could go downward to the place of graves With eyes a-shine and pale lips smiling still;

Or it may be that, if through all the strife And pain of parting I should hear thy call, I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life, And know no mystery of death at all.

It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night! And when you see the violets again, And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white, The gentle falling of the April rain,

Remember her whose young life held thy name With all things holy, in its outward flight, And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men To hear again her low good-night! good-night!

Hester A. Benedict [18 -

REQUIESCAT

Bury me deep when I am dead, Far from the woods where sweet birds sing; Lap me in sullen stone and lead, Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring.

Never a flower be near me set, Nor starry cup nor slender stem, Anemone nor violet, Lest my poor dust remember them.

And you - wherever you may fare - Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew - Never, ah me, pass never there, Lest my poor dust should dream of you.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

THE FOUR WINDS

Wind of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars - Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love.