 | Dreams and days |  |
IV
What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say?
What tragedy of petty care and sorrow?
Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay,
Then those will know who live and love tomorrow.
But here at least is what this opal said,
The fifth in number: and the next two bore
My fancy toward that dim world of the dead,
Where waiting spirits muse the past life o'er:
What tragedy of petty care and sorrow?
Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay,
Then those will know who live and love tomorrow.
But here at least is what this opal said,
The fifth in number: and the next two bore
My fancy toward that dim world of the dead,
Where waiting spirits muse the past life o'er:
109
FIFTH OPAL
I dreamed my kisses on your hairTurned into roses. Circling bloom
Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there.
“O Love,” I cried, “forever
Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted
By my heart's deep honey-breath!”
But even as I bending looked, I saw
The roses were not; and, instead, there lay
Pale, feathered flakes and scentless
Ashes upon your hair!
SIXTH OPAL
The love I gave, the love I gave,
Wherewith I sought to win you—
Ah, long and close to you it clave
With life and soul and sinew!
Wherewith I sought to win you—
Ah, long and close to you it clave
With life and soul and sinew!
My gentleness with scorn you cursed:
You knew not what I gave.
The strongest man may die of thirst:
My love is in its grave!
You knew not what I gave.
The strongest man may die of thirst:
My love is in its grave!
110
SEVENTH OPAL
You say these jewels were accurst—
With evil omen fraught.
You should have known it from the first!
This was the truth they taught:
With evil omen fraught.
You should have known it from the first!
This was the truth they taught:
No treasured thing in heaven or earth
Holds potency more weird
Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth
With wavering flames insphered.
Holds potency more weird
Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth
With wavering flames insphered.
And when from me the gems you took,
On that strange April day,
My nature, too, I gave, that shook
With passion's fateful play.
On that strange April day,
My nature, too, I gave, that shook
With passion's fateful play.
The mingled fate my love should give
In these mute emblems shone,
That more intensely burn and live—
While I am turned to stone.
In these mute emblems shone,
That more intensely burn and live—
While I am turned to stone.
| Dreams and days | |