 | Lays of France |  |
O lover, who had all delight
In winning me,—'tis many a night,
Since, through the sweet hours lovingly,
I lay by you and you by me;
And now, perchance, if you should see
My flowerless beauty, loved by you,
Wasted to white and kissed all through
With sorrow,—scarcely might I seem
Your love of lost days or your dream
Down there in charmed sleep; and, to-day,
Why need I take your dream away?
—Sleep on; and think of me, I say,
Whatever sweet thing lets you lie
Content with death; I have made rich
Your grave indeed with tear and sigh;
And, many a night hath been, through which
I prayed to God that I might die
And go down softly to you. Dear,
I do believe you would not hear;
You would not know or feel me near;
And, though I kissed you, till you saw
My wan face, I should never draw
One warm kiss from your lips, or thaw
The hard ice at your heart! What song
Of mine hath ever reached you? Long
Mad nights I lay awake, and wrought
My sorrowing heart to such a plaint
Of lone imploring words, I thought
Some of them surely must have brought
Your soul quite to me, roused with faint
Most piteous murmurings that made way
Through earth and leaves to where you lay.
And, if indeed death had not set
Some cold and very mighty spell
Upon you, making you forget
My face, yea, and your love, to dwell
With some unearthly dream, or rest
Dreamless and joyless in his breast
For ever,—O you had not failed
To steal up somehow, wearying night,
Death, dreams, and mystic ways of sight
And sound, till one fair path availed
To make you known to me. And now,
It seems we both who made the vow
Of love have fallen on either side
Somewhat away; and I, who chide
Thee never for it, hold, maybe,
At length the greater memory.
117
Since, through the sweet hours lovingly,
I lay by you and you by me;
And now, perchance, if you should see
My flowerless beauty, loved by you,
Wasted to white and kissed all through
With sorrow,—scarcely might I seem
Your love of lost days or your dream
Down there in charmed sleep; and, to-day,
Why need I take your dream away?
—Sleep on; and think of me, I say,
Whatever sweet thing lets you lie
Content with death; I have made rich
Your grave indeed with tear and sigh;
And, many a night hath been, through which
I prayed to God that I might die
And go down softly to you. Dear,
I do believe you would not hear;
You would not know or feel me near;
And, though I kissed you, till you saw
My wan face, I should never draw
One warm kiss from your lips, or thaw
118
Of mine hath ever reached you? Long
Mad nights I lay awake, and wrought
My sorrowing heart to such a plaint
Of lone imploring words, I thought
Some of them surely must have brought
Your soul quite to me, roused with faint
Most piteous murmurings that made way
Through earth and leaves to where you lay.
And, if indeed death had not set
Some cold and very mighty spell
Upon you, making you forget
My face, yea, and your love, to dwell
With some unearthly dream, or rest
Dreamless and joyless in his breast
For ever,—O you had not failed
To steal up somehow, wearying night,
Death, dreams, and mystic ways of sight
And sound, till one fair path availed
To make you known to me. And now,
It seems we both who made the vow
Of love have fallen on either side
119
Thee never for it, hold, maybe,
At length the greater memory.
| Lays of France | |