 | A Sculptor and Other Poems |  |
We were sitting together one eventide; her hand lay light in mine,
The quiet hand that, to-morrow morn, was to wear my marriage-sign:
I was reading a quaint old ballad aloud that pleas'd my lady much,
When we heard a footstep—an open'd door—and she drew her hand from my touch,
And lifted her eyes—and then—O Will!—with a cry, on my heart that rang
As a joybell might on a doom'd man's ear who waits for his deat?, she sprang,
With a deer-like bound in the eager joy that quiver'd through all her frame
To her home on his breast for evermore, and he kiss'd her and nam'd her name.
The quiet hand that, to-morrow morn, was to wear my marriage-sign:
I was reading a quaint old ballad aloud that pleas'd my lady much,
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And lifted her eyes—and then—O Will!—with a cry, on my heart that rang
As a joybell might on a doom'd man's ear who waits for his deat?, she sprang,
With a deer-like bound in the eager joy that quiver'd through all her frame
To her home on his breast for evermore, and he kiss'd her and nam'd her name.
Only a moment thus they stood, forgetting all but the joy
Of a love whose infinite sweetness and strength nor time nor pain could destroy,
And then she started back from his arms with a glorious crimson glow,
Love's banner, flasht out over her face from her chin to her very brow;
So was the wonderful loveliness now full-lit by the light of the human,
Grown beneath love's true hand at once to the fairest beauty of woman.
My heart sent forth a desperate cry as wordless I past from the door,
Like the last long wail of one who is drown'd in sight of the ship and the shore.
Of a love whose infinite sweetness and strength nor time nor pain could destroy,
And then she started back from his arms with a glorious crimson glow,
Love's banner, flasht out over her face from her chin to her very brow;
So was the wonderful loveliness now full-lit by the light of the human,
Grown beneath love's true hand at once to the fairest beauty of woman.
My heart sent forth a desperate cry as wordless I past from the door,
Like the last long wail of one who is drown'd in sight of the ship and the shore.
| A Sculptor and Other Poems | |