Part 6

’Tis strange, how little doth the world perceive The interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me; And how far distant from the truth it be When, guessing of my love, it doth deceive Itself and others, and some tale conceive That hath no setting for my heart or thee. Then happy are we that it doth not see Beyond the false report it would receive. So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my love That all these years hath sought thee near at hand, And seen thee bud and flower, as I strove To wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand; So thou, upon some pedestal above, Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.

CXXI

That which we have we value not to-day, Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore. If fortune flieth and be ours no more, Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way, If by infirmity we cease to play Those truant games that childhood doth adore, Then are we all anxiety therefore; Since many long for youth when they grow gray. So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain, And all unconscious cast my love aside, Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regain When I no longer on this earth reside, Remembered by my love, that shall remain; But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.

CXXII

Oh, chide me not, if in this life I make Poor tillage of the soil that men do plough; And hold me not transgressor, if I now Of this world’s order would not so partake. Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake, And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow. While others happy issue from it know, My soul may not produce till my heart break. Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow, And though thy husbandry be but a line, Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow, May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s sign In after years, so that the world shall borrow Some portion of the love that once was thine.

CXXIII

If thou wert chainèd by the bans of life, And wedded to another, as thy lord, I well might pierce this heart as with a sword, And leave to love the virtue of a wife. But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife, Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward; Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word, That I am all at enmity and strife. Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride, Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow, That, taken in captivity, doth fade, And melt to water, clear as for a bride. Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough, To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.

CXXIV

Thou art, in truth, my muse’s only guide, That fashions by this pen thine image here, Developèd, through loving, year by year: The picture of thy beauty and thy pride. For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide, Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear, And must portray thy very joy and fear, This mirror and thyself stand side by side. Then, should thy true resemblance live herein (An only offspring of my love, for me), I treasure this thy likeness as my child; And think thereon, as I do think on thee. For thou art both my angel and my sin; Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.

CXXV

Back from the sculptured chantry of the past, The chiselled forms of memory appear, Like stately sentinels of night, yet dear And welcome, as they gather swift and fast; Fast on the heels of love, returned at last, And swift, as recollection draweth near. The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear, They echo thoughts that time hath long recast. Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed, By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand, And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed, Are opened to admit the wondrous band Of spiritual workmen, unopposed, Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.

CXXVI

If all the value of my love is this, That by its pain my verse may have some lasting, Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting; Not in fulfilment of its end remiss, But yielding somewhat of that holy bliss Denied me, though on others its joy casting. No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting; No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss. Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth, For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile. Give unto life the love that in thee lieth; Since what thou lovest only would defile. Gain for thyself the name of one who trieth Love’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.

CXXVII

Oh! lay aside thy pen, since thou must sing Forever in a mournful minor key, And let the world thy disappointment see, And hear the death-knell of thy spirit ring. Why write of love, since love thou canst not bring Within thy craving heart, that still must be Unsatisfied? Why on thy bended knee Beg life from some cold, adamantine thing? Yet at this final moment, more than e’er, Dost thou seem near to me, dear heart, and more Than when first found, dost thou seem sweet and fair, And of my love possess a greater store! Then though my voice be still, and dead the air, In silence must I thy dear self adore.

CXXVIII

The Wounded Eros fell upon the ground, His bow and quiver lying at his side; The one destroyed, the other but half tried. An arrow, aimed at man, its way had found Beneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a sound At once both sweet and sad, he sank and cried In pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride, As she descended from the heavenly mound. So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen, Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings, Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart. Filled with the vision of what might have been, He treasures still the very thought that clings, Like sable night, though from it he would part.

_O thou, fair one, who never shalt be known,_ _Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,_ _And time displace the greed of worldly lust;_ _Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shown_ _How great love may become when once full-grown:_ _Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trust_ _In all things born of love’s fierce fire,--and must,_ _Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:_ _Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet._ _Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!_ _Within these lines both joy and sorrow greet_ _The lenient friend, who hath not passed them by._ _And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,_ _Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie._