Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/73

 But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.

I have a theory, vague, undefined, That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, Until it takes possession of some breast; And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth. And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible and clothèd like the air, Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware, And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.

Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife With all the old intensity of feeling. It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day; Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.

So now into my troubled heart, above The present’s pain and sorrow, crept the love And strife and passion of a bygone hour, Possessed of all their olden might and power. ’Twas but a moment, and the spell was broken By pleasant words of greeting, gently spoken, And Vivian stood before us.

But I saw In him the husband of my friend alone. The old emotions might at times return, And smould’ring fires leap up an hour and burn; But never yet had I transgressed God’s law,