Poems Real and Ideal :: :: University of Virginia Library

A lover conquered passion,—and he let
The great sweet chance slip through his fingers quite:
But was he closer unto God that night,
Knowing that passion's golden sun had set?
Did no wild storms of anguish and regret
Sweep o'er his lonely couch,—whereon a white
Soft figure should have lain?—the battle of right
Had been fought out—the victory won,—and yet....

All through that night he tossed about,—in dreams
Seeing a rose ungathered beckoning him:
Seeing the sudden flash of white that gleams
Above the bodice-lacework's loosened rim:
Waking and grasping—just the cold moonbeams!
Till morning broke,—rainy and weird and dim.

II.

Then forth he went and wandered by the sea:
The horizon cleared and the fair golden sun
Flashed on the waves that answered one by one,
And,—turning inland,—many a wet rose-tree
Flung rainbow dew-drops at him merrily.
The battle he the previous night had won
Seemed like a fierce defeat,—a hot race run
For worse than nothing: such strange beings are we!

“And she”—he thought—“my rose-bush all this night
Of perfect passionate summer left alone:
With never a kiss imprinted on the white
Rose-breast that might have been my own . . . my own . . .
To-night is left us still: the ways untrod
Shall ring to-night to passion's steeds,—by God!”

III.

And that night,—having sent a letter first,—
He waited her beside the blue still sea.
The ripples at his feet plashed tenderly,—
Now he was ready,—let Fate do its worst,
No night than last night could be more accursed!
Now he felt oneness with the rich rose-tree,
And watched the sunset,—and it did not flee,
Then passion grasped his throat with giant thirst.

He turned to meet her,—for the hour had come.
Then lo! a carriage by the sea-side wall,
And into his a woman's eyes once flashed;
Then on towards Venice the grey horses dashed.
He saw it now,—Last night or never at all:—
Aye—never, never, never!—till the tomb.