 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
ESTRANGED.
Some day she will come back, my poor lost dove, —
My dove with the warm breast and eager eyes!
How did it fail toward her, my passionate love?
Where was the flaw? — since flaw there must have been,
Or surely she had stayed with me, my queen.
Her heart was full of inarticulate cries,
Which my heart failed to catch; and yet she strove
To cleave to me — ah, how she must have striven,
Praying, perchance, ofttimes for strength from Heaven!
But no strength came; and so, one fatal day,
Despairing of all help, she went away.
My dove with the warm breast and eager eyes!
How did it fail toward her, my passionate love?
Where was the flaw? — since flaw there must have been,
Or surely she had stayed with me, my queen.
Her heart was full of inarticulate cries,
Which my heart failed to catch; and yet she strove
To cleave to me — ah, how she must have striven,
Praying, perchance, ofttimes for strength from Heaven!
But no strength came; and so, one fatal day,
Despairing of all help, she went away.
209
And there her half-completed portrait stands, —
The fresh young face, the gray eyes brimmed with light!
I painted her with flowers in her hands,
Because she always seemed so bright and good.
I never thought the studio's solitude
Would weary her so much. I thought the sight
Of painted forms and unfamiliar lands
Would be enough for her. She was too mild,
Too patient with my painter's life, poor child!
Had she complained at all, by look or tone,
Had she but said, “I seem too much alone,
The fresh young face, the gray eyes brimmed with light!
I painted her with flowers in her hands,
Because she always seemed so bright and good.
I never thought the studio's solitude
Would weary her so much. I thought the sight
Of painted forms and unfamiliar lands
Would be enough for her. She was too mild,
Too patient with my painter's life, poor child!
Had she complained at all, by look or tone,
Had she but said, “I seem too much alone,
“I grow half fearful of these painted eyes,
That never change, but, full of sad reproof,
Haunt me and watch me; and these Southern skies
Reflected in deep streams; and that dark boat
From which a girl with bare, sweet breast and throat
Droops, willow-like, and dreams of life and love;
And that youth's dying face, which never dies;
And then, again, that picture of Christ there,
Christ fallen in an agony of prayer,
And His disciples near Him, stern and dumb,
Like men who know the fated hour is come.”
That never change, but, full of sad reproof,
Haunt me and watch me; and these Southern skies
Reflected in deep streams; and that dark boat
From which a girl with bare, sweet breast and throat
Droops, willow-like, and dreams of life and love;
And that youth's dying face, which never dies;
And then, again, that picture of Christ there,
Christ fallen in an agony of prayer,
And His disciples near Him, stern and dumb,
Like men who know the fated hour is come.”
Had she said this, and added, “Take me, dear,
Away from these sad faces; let me stand
Once more within life's shallows, and there hear
Light laughter of the surf upon the beach,
For here the very sea is without speech,
So still it is, and far away from land.
I want life's little joys; this atmosphere
Oppresses me, — I cannot breathe in it.
The light that lights your life leaves mine unlit,” —
I should have answered tenderly, and sought
To carry out, in all, her slightest thought.
Away from these sad faces; let me stand
Once more within life's shallows, and there hear
Light laughter of the surf upon the beach,
For here the very sea is without speech,
So still it is, and far away from land.
I want life's little joys; this atmosphere
Oppresses me, — I cannot breathe in it.
The light that lights your life leaves mine unlit,” —
I should have answered tenderly, and sought
To carry out, in all, her slightest thought.
She knew I loved her, through those winter days, —
Did it not comfort her at all, my love?
It was such joy to look upon her face,
I sat for hours, content to be quite still,
Feeling her warm, bright, breathing beauty fill
My soul and brain; fearful lest she should move,
Or speak, or go; but when she met my gaze
I turned away, as if I had done wrong
In looking on her loveliness so long.
I rarely kissed her, rarely took her hand;
And now I think she did not understand.
Did it not comfort her at all, my love?
210
I sat for hours, content to be quite still,
Feeling her warm, bright, breathing beauty fill
My soul and brain; fearful lest she should move,
Or speak, or go; but when she met my gaze
I turned away, as if I had done wrong
In looking on her loveliness so long.
I rarely kissed her, rarely took her hand;
And now I think she did not understand.
Perchance she thought my love was passionless, —
Wanted what I withheld, yet longed to give.
She did not know my silence a caress,
Since passion was by reverence controlled,
And so she deemed my ways of love were cold.
Ah me! the lonely life she had to live;
And I knew nothing of its loneliness.
Hers was a nature quick to give and take, —
A nature to be broken and to break;
She loved confiding valleys, sun-kissed rills,
But saddened at the solemn peace of hills.
Wanted what I withheld, yet longed to give.
She did not know my silence a caress,
Since passion was by reverence controlled,
And so she deemed my ways of love were cold.
Ah me! the lonely life she had to live;
And I knew nothing of its loneliness.
Hers was a nature quick to give and take, —
A nature to be broken and to break;
She loved confiding valleys, sun-kissed rills,
But saddened at the solemn peace of hills.
All things had been so different had I known
Her nature then as now; and yet, and yet,
If she came in as I sit here alone,
The April twilight failing through the room,
And all the pictures lapsing into gloom, —
Came in, knelt down, and prayed me to forget,
Forgive her, and reclaim her for my own,
I should be glad, and draw her to my heart,
And kiss the rising tears away, and part
The sweet hair back, and fold her to my side,
Yet leave, perchance, some want unsatisfied.
Her nature then as now; and yet, and yet,
If she came in as I sit here alone,
The April twilight failing through the room,
And all the pictures lapsing into gloom, —
Came in, knelt down, and prayed me to forget,
Forgive her, and reclaim her for my own,
I should be glad, and draw her to my heart,
And kiss the rising tears away, and part
The sweet hair back, and fold her to my side,
Yet leave, perchance, some want unsatisfied.
But ah, she comes not! I must wait and bear;
Live on, and serve my art as best I may.
If I can catch the color of her hair,
And the neck's poise, and set beneath, her name,
Shall not her loveliness have deathless fame?
Oh, help me, Art, upon my difficult way!
Now lights shine out along the London square,
O dreary place! where no joy comes at all.
There! I must turn the easel to the wall,
I cannot bear her face as yet — O Love!
O wounded of my hands! my wounded dove!
Live on, and serve my art as best I may.
If I can catch the color of her hair,
211
Shall not her loveliness have deathless fame?
Oh, help me, Art, upon my difficult way!
Now lights shine out along the London square,
O dreary place! where no joy comes at all.
There! I must turn the easel to the wall,
I cannot bear her face as yet — O Love!
O wounded of my hands! my wounded dove!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |