Poems: Second Series :: :: University of Virginia Library

I ask not when thy grey and gathered gloom
Must end the sunshine of these sparkling hours:
Nor when the March wind of thy breath must doom
Life and its laughing flowers.

I ask not what the span of circling years
That yet remains—for, be it long or brief,
Death still will clothe itself in chilling fears—
Still bring me sweet relief.

Nor need I ask of thee in what a guise
Thou wilt draw near the threshold of my door:
To see thee is a film before our eyes,
That see and see no more.

135

It may be that a thorny path of pain—
A weary and interminable way—
Will lead me on through swamps of blinding rain
Into the light of day.

Or haply on thy slowly heaving breast
Without a pang my soul will fall asleep,
As moonbeams glide into the gleaming rest
Of the enchanted deep.

Or it may be that in a moment's space
The sudden quiver of a lightning flash
Will shrivel me to earth, nor grant me grace
To hear its thunder crash.

Or in a mountain tempest thou wilt come,
And through an hour of unavailing woe
Young life will struggle on—then faint and numb
Sink into drifts of snow.

I know not—but I know that late or soon
My heart must beat to feel thee drawing nigh—
Beat into stillness at thy touch, and swoon
Away from life—and die.

136

And there are times when I am quick to hear
Thy fancied footstep in a hush of sound:
There falls the shadow of a sudden fear—
I start and look around.

What even now the dream of thee can chill
My heart, and rob life's sunshine of its charm:
O death, there is one only way to still
These stirrings of alarm.

In fancy I will see thee face to face,
And pluck the veil from thine abhorrèd brow,
And commune with thee for a while—and trace
Thy ghastly features now.

And I will face thee in thy grimmest form—
With snow and darkness for thy winding sheet—
A phantom folded in a freezing storm,
Whose breath is driven sleet.

Whose eyes are lit with such a glare as froze
The Gorgon's victim into lifeless stone:
From whose pale lips each murmur, as it flows,
Is cruel as the moan

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Of loosened avalanche in wintry peak,
Where gathering thunder clots with ice the blood
Of one below: with terror-blanchèd cheek
He waits the rushing flood.

Such and so terrible shalt thou appear,
A bidden guest, that haply in the end
I may arise—for use can conquer fear—
To hail a welcome friend.

There is an hour—the dreariest of night—
When stars are dead—the daybreak yet unborn:—
The moon—a crescent cloud of ghostly white—
Wanes, waiting for the morn.

Grey dappled clouds against a lifeless sky
Hang motionless: there's not a star below,
Where smokeless hamlets, misty meadows lie
By the pale rivers flow.

At such a season were it fit to find
A like repose, and, at the chilly breath
Of the first shiver of the morning wind,
Pass into realms of death.

138

I cannot see on stream or dewy lawn
The desolation of the growing light;
I feel the wan approaches of the dawn,—
The stillness of the night.

The weird repose, the damp, the change, the chill,
I feel them—heralds of the hour of doom:—
But heavy curtains veil the window still,
And darkness fills the room;

Save where the glimmer of the lamp reveals
Beloved and loving faces wan with care:
One holds my restless hand: another kneels
Low on her knees in prayer.

Let pangs of cruel suffering rack my frame,
And wring cold drops of anguish from my brow:
Let life be wasted by a subtle flame—
Let spasms awake and bow

My soul in unavailing prayer to thee
To hasten thy approach, and bring me rest:
Yet suffer not these pains of death to be
An opiate to the breast.

139

Yes, do thy worst: forbid them to conceal
The darker torments of the soul within:
With calm unclouded anguish let me feel
The vengeful depths of sin.

Yes, do thy worst: let loose the hounds of hell,—
Torture of fear—bewilderment of doubt:—
Angels of hope and innocence that fell
To join the demon rout.

Let all my dreams of possible delight—
Visions of work achieved—of love returned—
The gleams of loveliness that filled my sight—
The light for which I yearned—

Return as angry demons: let me hear
The obscene flappings of their dusky wings:
Till I have half forgotten in my fear
The outward pain that wrings.

Let life and all its flying moments seem
A shock of senseless colour, deafening sound:—
Idle as nightmare pageants in a dream,
Or “noises in a swound.”

140

Or let me deem the whole creation curst,
And man more deeply damned because awake
To suffer—tortured by a parching thirst,
That he may never slake.

But those pale watchers, wasted with my woes,
Whose love unwearied waits the dread release—
Is there no healing in the prayer that flows
From hearts of purest peace?

Nay this is bitterest: in this I drink
The wine of anguish to its bitter lees—
This is the crowning pang—I may not think
The thoughts that solace these.

They reck not of the gulf that is between
My faith and theirs: they may not ever know,
How all the props on which I learned to lean
Were broken long ago.

For oh! not mine that angel whose white wings
Have charmed away the darkest fiends of death:
Not mine the sweet serenity that springs
From simple childlike faith.

141

And Father shield me when death clouds eclipse
The light of reason. Be it far from me
To falter falsehoods with my dying lips—
To lie when nearest Thee.

What, am I dying then without one ray
Of hope to pierce the gloom of my despair—
Dying as blasts that wail and die away
On blank of midnight air?

Oh! never so—one burning faith is mine—
The background of one unextinguished flame—
That sin and sorrow shew the soul divine—
That failure proves the aim—

That darkness only lives against the light,
And were not if the sun had never shone:—
And were it not, the starry hosts of night
Were lifeless and unknown.—

That love and truth and beauty are the last
Supreme realities. The burial sod
Blinds us to these—but when their light is past,
We see the face of God.

142

And I have fathomed to its last abyss
This hell of stormy gloom, and found beneath
The blessing and the balm of such a kiss
As only angels breathe.

I had not found it, if I had not faced
This utter darkness with unflinching soul,—
Through wastes of sand and bitter marshes traced
The river to its goal.

Pray on sweet souls and I will join your prayer,
And kneel in spirit humbled to the ground:
The currents of our faith are mingled there
Where they are most profound.

I care not if the play of surface thought
Sunder our minds: our deepest hearts are one:
Pray on: the heart will throb when mind is nought—
When reason's work is done.

The faith—the hope—the purpose of our days
Meet in one central orb of light divine:
Pray on: your kindled hearts are strong to gaze
On truth that dazzles mine.

143

And kiss and cool the fever of my brow,
And feed my dying soul on bread of love:
O Death: O King of Terrors, what art thou?—
God's angel from above.