 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
245
AN ESTRANGEMENT.
How is it? It seems so strange;
Only a month ago
We were such friends; now there 's a change;
Why, I scarcely know;
I thought we were friends enough to say,
“We differ in this or the other way,
What matter?” It was not so.
Only a month ago
We were such friends; now there 's a change;
Why, I scarcely know;
I thought we were friends enough to say,
“We differ in this or the other way,
What matter?” It was not so.
I know not the how or why,
I only feel the fact;
Something hath happened to set us awry,
Something is sadly lacked,—
Something that used to be before,—
It seems to be nothing, I feel it the more;
Our vase is not broken, but cracked.
I only feel the fact;
Something hath happened to set us awry,
Something is sadly lacked,—
Something that used to be before,—
It seems to be nothing, I feel it the more;
Our vase is not broken, but cracked.
Friends? Oh, yes, we are friends;
The words we say are the same,
But there is not the something that lends
The grace, though it has no name.
When others are with us we feel it less;
When alone, there 's a sort of irksomeness,
And nobody to blame.
The words we say are the same,
But there is not the something that lends
The grace, though it has no name.
When others are with us we feel it less;
When alone, there 's a sort of irksomeness,
And nobody to blame.
246
I wish I could say, “Dear friend,
Tell me, what have I done?
Forgive me; let it be now at an end.”
But ah! we scarcely own
That aught has happened—or something so slight
'T is ghostlike, it will not bear the light,—
'T is only a change of tone.
Tell me, what have I done?
Forgive me; let it be now at an end.”
But ah! we scarcely own
That aught has happened—or something so slight
'T is ghostlike, it will not bear the light,—
'T is only a change of tone.
Suppose I should venture to say:
“Something,—oh! tell me what—
Troubles the heart's free play
That once existed not.”
All would be worse;—we must turn our back;
Pretend not to see that there is a crack
In our vase, on our love a blot.
“Something,—oh! tell me what—
Troubles the heart's free play
That once existed not.”
All would be worse;—we must turn our back;
Pretend not to see that there is a crack
In our vase, on our love a blot.
Once were it openly said,
It would strike us more apart.
Each, alas! would know that there laid
A stone at the other's heart.
But now we carry it each alone,
So we must hope to live it down,
Each one playing his part.
It would strike us more apart.
Each, alas! would know that there laid
A stone at the other's heart.
But now we carry it each alone,
So we must hope to live it down,
Each one playing his part.
It is not that I express
Less, but a little more,
A little more accent, a little more stress,
Which was not needed before.
Ah! would I could feel entirely sure
That it was not so—I should be truer,
If you were just as of yore.
Less, but a little more,
A little more accent, a little more stress,
Which was not needed before.
Ah! would I could feel entirely sure
That it was not so—I should be truer,
If you were just as of yore.
247
But I cannot give you up.
Ah! no, I am all to blame;
You were so kind, you filled my cup
With love,—and mine is the shame;
'T was some stupid, foolish word I said
Unwitting, I know, that must have bred
This something without a name.
Ah! no, I am all to blame;
You were so kind, you filled my cup
With love,—and mine is the shame;
'T was some stupid, foolish word I said
Unwitting, I know, that must have bred
This something without a name.
Was it not all a mistake?
Oh! porcelain friendship so thin,
It is so apt, so apt to break
And let out the wine from within;
But once it is injured the least, alack!
What hand so skilful to mend the crack,
And make it all whole again.
Oh! porcelain friendship so thin,
It is so apt, so apt to break
And let out the wine from within;
But once it is injured the least, alack!
What hand so skilful to mend the crack,
And make it all whole again.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |