 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
105
SONNETS.
107
THE NEW DAY.
When the great sun sets the glad East aflame,
The lingering stars are swiftly put to flight;
For Day, triumphant, overthrows the night,
And mocks the lights that twinkled till he came.
The waning moon retires in sudden shame;
And all the air, from roseate height to height,
Quivers with wings of birds, that take the light
To jubilant music of one tender name.
The lingering stars are swiftly put to flight;
For Day, triumphant, overthrows the night,
And mocks the lights that twinkled till he came.
The waning moon retires in sudden shame;
And all the air, from roseate height to height,
Quivers with wings of birds, that take the light
To jubilant music of one tender name.
So Thou hast risen,—Thou who art my day;
And every lesser light has ceased to shine.
Pale stars, confronted by this dawn of thine,
Like night and gloom and grief have passed away;
And yet my bliss I fear to call it mine,
Lest fresh foes lurk with unforeseen dismay.
And every lesser light has ceased to shine.
Pale stars, confronted by this dawn of thine,
Like night and gloom and grief have passed away;
And yet my bliss I fear to call it mine,
Lest fresh foes lurk with unforeseen dismay.
108
ONE DREAD.
No depth, dear Love, for thee is too profound;There is no farthest height thou mayst not dare,
Nor shall thy wings fail in the upper air:
In funeral robe and wreath my past lies bound;
No old-time voice assails me with its sound
When thine I hear; no former joy seems fair;
And now one only thing could bring despair,
One grief like compassing seas my life surround,
One only terror in my way be met,
One great eclipse change my glad day to night,
One phantom only turn from red to white
The lips whereon thy lips have once been set:
Thou knowest well, dear Love, what that must be,—
The dread of some dark day unshared by thee.
109
AFAR.
Where Thou art not no day holds light for me,
The brightest noontide turns to midnight deep;
There no bird sings, but awesome shadows creep,—
Persistent ghosts that hold my memory,
And walk where Joy and Hope once walked with thee,
And in thy place their lonesome vigil keep,—
Sad shades that haunt the inmost ways of sleep,
No kindly morning ever bids them flee.
The brightest noontide turns to midnight deep;
There no bird sings, but awesome shadows creep,—
Persistent ghosts that hold my memory,
And walk where Joy and Hope once walked with thee,
And in thy place their lonesome vigil keep,—
Sad shades that haunt the inmost ways of sleep,
No kindly morning ever bids them flee.
Those tireless footsteps, will they never cease?
Like crownless queens they tread their ancient ways,—
Pale phantoms of old dreams and vanished days,—
And mock my poor endeavors after peace.
Too long this Arctic night, too keen its cold;
Come back, strong sun, and warm me as of old!
Like crownless queens they tread their ancient ways,—
Pale phantoms of old dreams and vanished days,—
And mock my poor endeavors after peace.
Too long this Arctic night, too keen its cold;
Come back, strong sun, and warm me as of old!
110
LAST YEAR.
[I. You thought, O Love, you loved me then, I know]
You thought, O Love, you loved me then, I know;
For that I bless you, now when Love is cold,
Remembering how warm the tale you told,
While winds of autumn fitfully did blow,
And, by the sea's perpetual ebb and flow,
We wandered on together to behold
Noon's radiant splendor, or the sunset's gold,
Or beauty of still nights where moons hung low.
For that I bless you, now when Love is cold,
Remembering how warm the tale you told,
While winds of autumn fitfully did blow,
And, by the sea's perpetual ebb and flow,
We wandered on together to behold
Noon's radiant splendor, or the sunset's gold,
Or beauty of still nights where moons hung low.
Your voice grew tender when you called my name;
I heard that voice to-day,—was it the same?—
The old-time music trembles in it yet.
Your touch thrilled through me like a sudden flame
And then Love's sweet and subtle madness came,
And glad lips clung that now to kiss forget.
I heard that voice to-day,—was it the same?—
The old-time music trembles in it yet.
Your touch thrilled through me like a sudden flame
And then Love's sweet and subtle madness came,
And glad lips clung that now to kiss forget.
[II. You surely must remember, though to-day]
You surely must remember, though to-day
There is no spell to charm you in the past.
So dear the dream was that it could not last:
Too soon our pleasant skies were changed to gray;
The sun turned from our barren land away,
And all the leaves swept by us on the blast,
And all our hopes to that wild wind were cast—
For dead Love's soul there is no place to pray.
There is no spell to charm you in the past.
So dear the dream was that it could not last:
Too soon our pleasant skies were changed to gray;
111
And all the leaves swept by us on the blast,
And all our hopes to that wild wind were cast—
For dead Love's soul there is no place to pray.
But still the old time lingers in our thought:
In our regretful dreams the old suns rise,
And from their shining, memory hath caught
Some lingering glory of that glad surprise
When Love rose on us like the sun, and brought
Our hearts their morning under last year's skies.
In our regretful dreams the old suns rise,
And from their shining, memory hath caught
Some lingering glory of that glad surprise
When Love rose on us like the sun, and brought
Our hearts their morning under last year's skies.
112
FIRST LOVE.
Time was you heard the music of a sigh,
And Love awoke; and with it Song was born,—
Song glad as young birds carol in the morn,
And tender as the blue and brooding sky,
When all the earth feels Spring's warm witchery,
And with fresh flowers her bosom doth adorn;
And lovers love, and cannot love forlorn,
Since Love is of the gods, and may not die.
And Love awoke; and with it Song was born,—
Song glad as young birds carol in the morn,
And tender as the blue and brooding sky,
When all the earth feels Spring's warm witchery,
And with fresh flowers her bosom doth adorn;
And lovers love, and cannot love forlorn,
Since Love is of the gods, and may not die.
In after years may come some wildering light,—
Some sweet delusion, followed for a space,—
Such fitful fire-flies flash athwart the night,
But fade before the shining of that face
Which shines upon you still in Death's despite,
Whose steadfast beauty lights till death your days.
Some sweet delusion, followed for a space,—
Such fitful fire-flies flash athwart the night,
But fade before the shining of that face
Which shines upon you still in Death's despite,
Whose steadfast beauty lights till death your days.
113
LOVE'S FORGIVENESS.
I do forgive you for the pain I bear,
Though bitter pain is mingled with my bliss;
For still I think, while thrilling to your kiss,
“He found that other woman much more fair.”
I read your words, and see, immortal there,
Another love—how warm it was to this!
And know that from my face you still must miss
The beauty that another used to wear.
Though bitter pain is mingled with my bliss;
For still I think, while thrilling to your kiss,
“He found that other woman much more fair.”
I read your words, and see, immortal there,
Another love—how warm it was to this!
And know that from my face you still must miss
The beauty that another used to wear.
Yet I forgive you, Dear, and bow my head
To Destiny, my master and your own,—
He sets the way wherein my feet must tread;
And if he give me nothing quite mine own,—
I know some day my heart, so sore bested,
Will rest most quietly, and turn to stone.
To Destiny, my master and your own,—
He sets the way wherein my feet must tread;
And if he give me nothing quite mine own,—
I know some day my heart, so sore bested,
Will rest most quietly, and turn to stone.
114
IN TIME TO COME.
The time will come full soon! I shall be gone,
And you sit silent in the silent place,
With the sad autumn sunlight on your face.
Remembering the loves that were your own,
Haunted perchance by some familiar tone,
You will be weary then for the dead days,
And mindful of their sweet and bitter ways,
Though passion into memory shall have grown.
And you sit silent in the silent place,
With the sad autumn sunlight on your face.
Remembering the loves that were your own,
Haunted perchance by some familiar tone,
You will be weary then for the dead days,
And mindful of their sweet and bitter ways,
Though passion into memory shall have grown.
Then will I with your other ghosts draw nigh,
And whisper, as I pass, some former word,—
Some old endearment known in days gone by,
Some tenderness that once your pulses stirred:—
Which was it spoke to you, the wind or I?
I think you, musing, scarcely will have heard.
And whisper, as I pass, some former word,—
Some old endearment known in days gone by,
Some tenderness that once your pulses stirred:—
Which was it spoke to you, the wind or I?
I think you, musing, scarcely will have heard.
115
A SUMMER'S GROWTH.
Fair was the flower which proffers now its fruit;
The bud began to swell 'neath Spring's soft dew,
And tenderly the winds of summer blew
To foster it; and great strong suns were mute,
As through its veins warm life began to shoot,
And it put on each day some beauty new.
And all the fairer, as I think, it grew,
Because the streams were tears about its root.
The bud began to swell 'neath Spring's soft dew,
And tenderly the winds of summer blew
To foster it; and great strong suns were mute,
As through its veins warm life began to shoot,
And it put on each day some beauty new.
And all the fairer, as I think, it grew,
Because the streams were tears about its root.
But now our fruit hangs well within our reach,
And this indeed is time for gathering.
It hath the bloom of summer-tinted peach,
Each charm it hath that any man could sing;
Yet we, who taste it, whisper each to each,
“Not sweet, but very bitter, is this thing!”
And this indeed is time for gathering.
It hath the bloom of summer-tinted peach,
Each charm it hath that any man could sing;
Yet we, who taste it, whisper each to each,
“Not sweet, but very bitter, is this thing!”
116
MY BIRTHDAY.
Chide not because I doubt who would believe!
Has not my life been like that April day
Whose dawn awoke us with such proud display
Of mocking glory, kindled to deceive,
While in the distance low winds seemed to grieve,—
Winds sad with prophecy,—then skies grew gray,
And all the morning splendor passed away,
And dark with rain came on the gusty eve?
Has not my life been like that April day
Whose dawn awoke us with such proud display
Of mocking glory, kindled to deceive,
While in the distance low winds seemed to grieve,—
Winds sad with prophecy,—then skies grew gray,
And all the morning splendor passed away,
And dark with rain came on the gusty eve?
That was my birthday, symbol of my birth,—
Capricious April's heir, the sport of Fate,
Doomed to be better friends with Grief than Mirth,
To know no love that did not come too late,—
My only hope, sore spent with life's long pain,
In some glad morning to be born again.
Capricious April's heir, the sport of Fate,
Doomed to be better friends with Grief than Mirth,
To know no love that did not come too late,—
My only hope, sore spent with life's long pain,
In some glad morning to be born again.
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |