 | Poems |  |
Within an ancient Hall
Where oft I love to wander, once I found
An antique casket, that without a sound
Flew open quick, and as a Rose will fall
To pieces at a touch when overblown,
So was the floor around me thickly strown
With yellow leaves, the letters of the Dead:
Oh, hands that wrote these words, oh, loving eyes
That brightened over them, oh, hearts whose prize
And treasure once were these, by Time made Heir
To this your sometime wealth, with pious care
I gather in my hoards; for this is dust
Of human hearts that now I hold in trust,
And while I muse above it, spirits flown
Come back and commune with me, till the fled
Pale ink reveals two names that now have grown
Familiar to my soul, as I had known
And pitied them in Youth; in parley soft
I win their secrets forth from them, and oft
Make question of their Past! Did Love find rest
And fold its wing where it had made its nest
So warm and deep, or were these of the strong
And patient souls, condemned, though wedded long,
To serve for the other duteously, and wait
Upon a harsher Laban,—Life, that proves
With grievous, stern delays each heart that loves?
O gentle spirits, all your lives on high
Are written fair, but mortal history
Is traced upon the sand that may not keep
The dint of wave, so quick the dash and leap
That follows on—a picture on the wall—
A name upon the stone—a leaf whose green
Less quickly fades, because it once hath been
Within the Dove's soft beak, and this is all.
Where oft I love to wander, once I found
An antique casket, that without a sound
Flew open quick, and as a Rose will fall
To pieces at a touch when overblown,
So was the floor around me thickly strown
With yellow leaves, the letters of the Dead:
Oh, hands that wrote these words, oh, loving eyes
That brightened over them, oh, hearts whose prize
And treasure once were these, by Time made Heir
To this your sometime wealth, with pious care
I gather in my hoards; for this is dust
Of human hearts that now I hold in trust,
And while I muse above it, spirits flown
Come back and commune with me, till the fled
Pale ink reveals two names that now have grown
Familiar to my soul, as I had known
And pitied them in Youth; in parley soft
I win their secrets forth from them, and oft
Make question of their Past! Did Love find rest
And fold its wing where it had made its nest
155
And patient souls, condemned, though wedded long,
To serve for the other duteously, and wait
Upon a harsher Laban,—Life, that proves
With grievous, stern delays each heart that loves?
O gentle spirits, all your lives on high
Are written fair, but mortal history
Is traced upon the sand that may not keep
The dint of wave, so quick the dash and leap
That follows on—a picture on the wall—
A name upon the stone—a leaf whose green
Less quickly fades, because it once hath been
Within the Dove's soft beak, and this is all.
| Poems | |