 | Ariel and Caliban with other poems |  |
III.
The summer had hardly begun when a letter from England came,
Full of the voyage and landing—but little of what he had hoped.
Too light, too glancing it seemed for a first love-letter from one
Far over the sea, who had said he should ever be first in her thoughts.
Bright and witty it fluttered from topic to topic—but never
Paused with a tremulous wing to dwell on the love she had left.
Something there was in its tone that said “I am happy without you:”
Something too little regretful—too full of her glittering life.
And as one gathers a beautiful flower ne'er gathered before,
Hoping a fragrance he misses, and yet half imagines he finds—
Wooing the depths of its color too rich for no perfume to match—
So seemed her letter to him, as he read the lines over and over.
Yet when Lionel answered, he breathed not a word of the thought,
Shading the glowing disc of his love with distant surmise.
“Soon,” he said, “will the novelty cease of this foreign excitement.
Then she will think sometimes of me as the sun goes down
Over the western waves—and tenderer tones will flow,
And mingle with warmer words in her letters from over the sea.”
Yet when another letter came, it brought her no nearer,
Less of herself, and more of the colors that tinted her life.
And Lionel wrote with passionate words: “Only tell me, Lucille,
Tell me you love me—but one brief line—and I will not complain.”
Restless, troubled, one day he passed her house on the island;
Shut to the sun and the breeze, it blinked on the village below.
Over the balcony leaned a purple Wisteria vine,
(Blooming, but not in its season, as oft 't is their habit to do,)
Trailing its ladylike flounces from window and carved balustrade,
And dropping its blossoms as brief as love. And Lionel muttered:
“She too over that balcony leaned one day as I passed—
Leaned like a flowery vine; and smiled as I passed below,
And waved me an airy kiss, with a pose of her beautiful form.
Can love that promised so truly be frail as these clusters of June?”
Full of the voyage and landing—but little of what he had hoped.
Too light, too glancing it seemed for a first love-letter from one
Far over the sea, who had said he should ever be first in her thoughts.
Bright and witty it fluttered from topic to topic—but never
Paused with a tremulous wing to dwell on the love she had left.
Something there was in its tone that said “I am happy without you:”
Something too little regretful—too full of her glittering life.
And as one gathers a beautiful flower ne'er gathered before,
Hoping a fragrance he misses, and yet half imagines he finds—
31
So seemed her letter to him, as he read the lines over and over.
Yet when Lionel answered, he breathed not a word of the thought,
Shading the glowing disc of his love with distant surmise.
“Soon,” he said, “will the novelty cease of this foreign excitement.
Then she will think sometimes of me as the sun goes down
Over the western waves—and tenderer tones will flow,
And mingle with warmer words in her letters from over the sea.”
Yet when another letter came, it brought her no nearer,
Less of herself, and more of the colors that tinted her life.
And Lionel wrote with passionate words: “Only tell me, Lucille,
Tell me you love me—but one brief line—and I will not complain.”
Restless, troubled, one day he passed her house on the island;
Shut to the sun and the breeze, it blinked on the village below.
Over the balcony leaned a purple Wisteria vine,
(Blooming, but not in its season, as oft 't is their habit to do,)
Trailing its ladylike flounces from window and carved balustrade,
32
“She too over that balcony leaned one day as I passed—
Leaned like a flowery vine; and smiled as I passed below,
And waved me an airy kiss, with a pose of her beautiful form.
Can love that promised so truly be frail as these clusters of June?”
Month after month now passed. Though he wrote as fondly as ever,
Brief were her answers, and longer between—till they finally ceased.
A year from the day when they parted, a letter from Paris arrived,
Short and constrained. It said: “I fear I have made you unhappy.
We have read too much of the poets. Our troth was a thing of romance.
My mother forbids it, it seems. There are reasons 't were painful to tell.
I'm sure you would find me unfitted—and I am not worth your regretting.
Adieu—and be happy. Lucille.”
Next month in the papers he saw
She had married a Count—some Pole with an unpronounceable name.
Brief were her answers, and longer between—till they finally ceased.
A year from the day when they parted, a letter from Paris arrived,
Short and constrained. It said: “I fear I have made you unhappy.
We have read too much of the poets. Our troth was a thing of romance.
My mother forbids it, it seems. There are reasons 't were painful to tell.
I'm sure you would find me unfitted—and I am not worth your regretting.
Adieu—and be happy. Lucille.”
Next month in the papers he saw
She had married a Count—some Pole with an unpronounceable name.
| Ariel and Caliban with other poems | |