Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 056.djvu/630

628 " Yes, and too! let him stand

In thy thoughts, untouch'd by blame.

Could he help it, if my hand

He had claim'd with hasty claim?

That was wrong perhaps—but then

Such things be—and will, again!

Women cannot judge for men,

" Had he seen thee, when he swore

He would love but me alone?

Thou wert absent,—sent before

To our kin in Sidmouth town.

When he saw thee who art best

Past compare, and loveliest,

He but judged thee as the rest.

" Could we blame him with grave words,

Thou and I, Dear, if we might?

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds,

Flying straightway to the light:

Mine are older.—Hush!—Look out—

Up the street! Is none without?

How the poplar swings about!

" And that hour—beneath the beech,—

When I listen'd in a dream,

And he said, in his deep speech,

That he owed me all esteem,—

Each word swam in on my brain

With a dim, dilating pain,

Till it burst with that last strain—

" I fell flooded with a Dark,

In the silence of a swoon—

When I rose, still cold and stark,

There was night,—I saw the moon:

And the stars, each in its place,

And the May-blooms on the grass,

Seem'd to wonder what I was.

" And I walk'd as if apart

From myself, when I could stand—

And I pitied my own heart,

As if I held it in my hand,—

Somewhat coldly,—with a sense

Of fulfill'd benevolence,

And a 'poor thing' negligence.

" And I answer'd coldly too,

When you met me at the door;

And I only heard the dew

Dripping from me to the floor:

And the flowers I bade you see,

Were too wither'd for the bee,—

As my life, henceforth, for me.

" Do not weep so—dear—heart-warm!

It was best as it befell!

If I say he did me harm,

I speak wild,—I am not well.

All his words were kind and good—

He esteem'd me! Only blood

Runs so faint in womanhood.

" Then I always was too grave,—

Liked the saddest ballads sung,—

With that look, besides, we have

In our faces, who die young.

I had died, Dear, all the same—

Life's long, joyous, jostling game

Is too loud for my meek shame.

" We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I; that none could guess

We were children of one mother,

But for mutual tenderness,

Thou art rose-lined from the cold,

And meant, verily, to hold

Life's pure pleasures manifold.

" I am pale as crocus grows

Close beside a rose-tree's root!

Whosoe'er would reach the rose,

Treads the crocus underfoot—

I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree—

Thou, like merry summer-bee!

Fit, that I be pluck'd for thee.

" Yet who plucks me?—no one mourns—

I have lived my season out,—

And now die of my own thorns

Which I could not live without.

Sweet, be merry! How the light

Comes and goes! If it be night,

Keep the candles in my sight

" Are there footsteps at the door?

Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?

Some one might be waiting for

Some last word that I might say.

Nay? So best !—So angels would

Stand off clear from deathly road—

Not to cross the sight of God.

" Colder grow my hands and feet—

When I wear the shroud I made,

Let the folds lie straight and neat,

And the rosemary be spread—

That if any friend should come,

(To see thee, sweet!) all the room

May be lifted out of gloom.

" And, dear Bertha, let me keep

On my hand this little ring,

Which at nights, when others sleep,

I can still see glittering.

Let me wear it out of sight

In the grave—where it will light

All the Dark up, day and night.

" On that grave, drop not a tear!

Else, though fathom-deep the place,

Through the woolen shroud I wear,

I shall feel it on my face.

Rather smile there, blessed one,

Thinking of me in the sun—

Or forget me—smiling on!