 | Poems |  |
81
“SO IT HAPPENS.”
“He loves thee not,” so spake they to her cold;
“He trifles with thee;” then she bowed her head,
And down her cheeks, like dew from roses, rolled
The tears fast welling at each word they said;
Oh! why did she believe? for when he came
Her doubtings angered him; a seeming light
He held through all, he spoke and smiled the same,
And waited—waited to weep through the night!
“He trifles with thee;” then she bowed her head,
And down her cheeks, like dew from roses, rolled
The tears fast welling at each word they said;
Oh! why did she believe? for when he came
Her doubtings angered him; a seeming light
He held through all, he spoke and smiled the same,
And waited—waited to weep through the night!
Still knocked a better angel at her heart,
“Yet is he true, give, give thy hand again;”
Still felt he through that bitterness and smart,
“She loves thee yet, she loves thee now as then;
Speak but one word, hear but one greeting kind,
So is the spell that lies betwixt you broken.”
Once more they met; oh, Pride is harsh and blind,
That word, that only word remained unspoken.
“Yet is he true, give, give thy hand again;”
Still felt he through that bitterness and smart,
“She loves thee yet, she loves thee now as then;
Speak but one word, hear but one greeting kind,
So is the spell that lies betwixt you broken.”
Once more they met; oh, Pride is harsh and blind,
That word, that only word remained unspoken.
So parted they, and as within the choir
Of some great Minster, wanes the altar-light
To duller red; then flashes fitful fire
All quivering restless, then sinks down in night;
So love died in them, long and sore bewept—
Called back again with yearnings vain, at last
Forgotten—till within each heart it slept,
With old illusions faded and o'erpast.
Of some great Minster, wanes the altar-light
82
All quivering restless, then sinks down in night;
So love died in them, long and sore bewept—
Called back again with yearnings vain, at last
Forgotten—till within each heart it slept,
With old illusions faded and o'erpast.
Yet oft-times started they, when moonlight streamed,
Up from their pillows that were wet with tears,
And wet with tears each face, for they had dreamed
I know not what; then thought they of the years,
The old, the lovely time that once had been,
And of their idle doubts, their broken troth,
And all that now was set their souls between,
So wide, so wide—O God, forgive them both!
Up from their pillows that were wet with tears,
And wet with tears each face, for they had dreamed
I know not what; then thought they of the years,
The old, the lovely time that once had been,
And of their idle doubts, their broken troth,
And all that now was set their souls between,
So wide, so wide—O God, forgive them both!
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