Chapter 5
We walked in sunshine, you and I, All in the summer weather: The very night seemed noonday bright, When we two were together. I wonder why with our good-bye O'er hill and vale and meadow There fell such shade, our paths seemed laid For evermore in shadow.
We dreamed a sweet dream, you and I, All in the summer weather, Where rose and wine and warm sunshine Were mingled in together. We dreamed that June was with us yet, We woke to find December. We dreamed that we two could forget, We woke but to remember.
HIS YOUTH
"Dying? I am not dying? Are you mad? You think I need to ask for heavenly grace? _I_ think _you_ are a fiend, who would be glad To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.
"But, man, you lie! for I am strong--in truth Stronger than I have been in years; and soon I shall feel young again as in my youth, My glorious youth--life's one great priceless boon.
"O youth, youth, youth! O God! that golden time, When proud and glad I laughed the hours away. Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime) I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.
"But I'm not _old_! I grew--just ill, somehow; Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight. It was but sickness. I am better now, Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.
"And I could weep warm floods of happy tears To think my strength is coming back at last, For I have dreamed of such an hour for years, As I lay thinking of my glorious past.
"You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth. How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain? How dare you say I have outlived my youth?
"'In heaven I may regain it'? Oh, be still! I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave. Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-- O youth, youth, youth! it is my _youth_ I crave.
"There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear. I am not sure of even rest or sleep; Perhaps we lie and _think_ as I have here.
"Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot, And hear the young above us laugh in glee. How dare you say I'm dying! _I am not_. I would curse God if such a thing could be.
"Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-- Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?" A cry--a fall--the silence known as death Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?
UNDER THE SHEET
What a terrible night! Does the Night, I wonder-- The Night, with her black veil down to her feet Like an ordained nun, know what lies under That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet? The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling, Over the sad earth blindly go. Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling, Do they dream or know?
Why, here in the room, not a week or over-- Tho' it must be a week, not more than one-- (I cannot recken of late or discover When one day is ended or one begun), But here in this room we were laughing lightly, And glad was the measure our two hearts beat; And the royal face that was smiling so brightly Lies under that sheet.
I know not why--it is strange and fearful, But I am afraid of her, lying there; She who was always so gay and cheerful, Lying so still with that stony stare: She who was so like some grand sultana, Fond of colour and glow and heat, To lie there clothed in that awful manner In a stark white sheet.
She who was made out of summer blisses, Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair, To lie and stare at my fondest kisses-- God! no wonder it whitens my hair Shriek, O wind! for the world is lonely; Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night's feet! For all that I prize in life is only A shape and a sheet.
A PIN
Oh! I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could. The little chills run up and down my spine whene'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.
And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said-- When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.
But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain-- If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain. A pin is such a tiny thing--of that there is no doubt-- Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!
She is wonderfully observing. When she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic; to her friend who's much admired, She is often heard remarking: "Dear, you look so _worn_ and tired!"
And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said: "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."
Then she said: "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend." And she left me with a feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it hadn't been for her.
Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day; And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.
She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust; Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust. Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.
THE COMING MAN
Oh! not for the great departed, Who formed our country's laws, And not for the bravest-hearted, Who died in freedom's cause, And not for some living hero To whom all bend the knee, My muse would raise her song of praise-- But for the man _to be_.
For out of the strife which woman Is passing through to-day, A man that is more than human Shall yet be born, I say. A man in whose pure spirit No dross of self will lurk; A man who is strong to cope with wrong, A man who is proud to work.
A man with hope undaunted, A man with godlike power, Shall come when he most is wanted, Shall come at the needed hour. He shall silence the din and clamour Of clan disputing with clan, And toil's long fight with purse-proud might Shall triumph through this man.
I know he is coming, coming, To help, to guide, to save. Though I hear no martial drumming, And see no flags that wave. But the great soul travail of woman, And the bold free thought unfurled, Are heralds that say he is on the way-- The coming man of the world.
Mourn not for vanished ages, With their great heroic men, Who dwell in history's pages And live in the poet's pen. For the grandest times are before us, And the world is yet to see The noblest worth of this old earth In the men that are to be.