 | The Baroness of New York |  |
IV.
The road of love is a tortuous road,
Sudden and many the turns for all;
An uphill way, with a weary load,
And fatal, indeed, with many a fall:
And giving, at best, but a questionable kiss.
How long he had loved, had followed her
A far off faithfulest worshiper,
Silent and earnest, as true love is,
We may not know; but we find the two
The envied, and adored, of the Avenue.
Sudden and many the turns for all;
An uphill way, with a weary load,
And fatal, indeed, with many a fall:
And giving, at best, but a questionable kiss.
How long he had loved, had followed her
A far off faithfulest worshiper,
Silent and earnest, as true love is,
We may not know; but we find the two
The envied, and adored, of the Avenue.
Little men knew of him; still less
They knew of the dark-browed Baroness,
The beautiful stranger. She that drew
The veil of mystery close, and dwelt
Alone in splendor at night, and knelt
Each morn at the cross; and forever kept
Her fair face humbled, as one that wept,
As she walked at eve on the Avenue.
Yet busy was all the town to guess
The secrets of this same Baroness.
They knew of the dark-browed Baroness,
The beautiful stranger. She that drew
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Alone in splendor at night, and knelt
Each morn at the cross; and forever kept
Her fair face humbled, as one that wept,
As she walked at eve on the Avenue.
Yet busy was all the town to guess
The secrets of this same Baroness.
Yea, busy was fame with her gold, her name,
Her great, proud house on the Avenue;
Her horses in harness of gold that drew
Her lonesome carriage in glory through
The wondering crowd; her maids that came
And spoke no tongue that any man knew;
Her marvelous form, her midnight of hair,
That maddened the vulgar millionaire,
Who guessed that his ladder of gold might reach
To the tallest bough or the fairest peach.
Her great, proud house on the Avenue;
Her horses in harness of gold that drew
Her lonesome carriage in glory through
The wondering crowd; her maids that came
And spoke no tongue that any man knew;
Her marvelous form, her midnight of hair,
That maddened the vulgar millionaire,
Who guessed that his ladder of gold might reach
To the tallest bough or the fairest peach.
Sir Francis Jain was a hero true
As the old-time heroes. But never yet
Had he breathed his love. Oft had they met
In the eddying whirls of the Avenue;
And oft at morn on her way to prayer
He met her, passed her, hat in air.
He now made note, as they met, her step
Was scarce so stately; and yet she kept
Her eyes to the ground as she passed to prayer,
And silent and signless she passed him there.
As the old-time heroes. But never yet
Had he breathed his love. Oft had they met
In the eddying whirls of the Avenue;
And oft at morn on her way to prayer
He met her, passed her, hat in air.
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Was scarce so stately; and yet she kept
Her eyes to the ground as she passed to prayer,
And silent and signless she passed him there.
| The Baroness of New York | |