Life and Phantasy by William Allingham: With frontispiece by Sir John E. Millais: A design by Arthur H. Hughes and a song for voice and piano forte |
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 | Life and Phantasy |  |
The drooping bough
Is elm; its shadow lies below.
Gathering flowers we used to creep
Along the hedgerows, where the sun
Came through like this; then, everyone,
Find out some arbour close and cool,
To weave them in our rushy caps,
Primroses, bluebells, such a heap,
Stay, now!—the girls are hid perhaps—
It may be all a dream—
Is elm; its shadow lies below.
Gathering flowers we used to creep
Along the hedgerows, where the sun
Came through like this; then, everyone,
Find out some arbour close and cool,
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Primroses, bluebells, such a heap,
Stay, now!—the girls are hid perhaps—
It may be all a dream—
You fool!
Was it for this you tramp'd your way
And begg'd your way by night and day
To find this place? . . . It's his domain:
Each tree is his, each blade of grass
Under my feet. How dare I pass,
A tatter'd vagrant, half insane,
Scarce fit to slink by the roadside,
These lordly bounds, where, with his Bride—
I tell you, kneeling on this sod,
He is, before the face of God,
My husband!
Was it for this you tramp'd your way
And begg'd your way by night and day
To find this place? . . . It's his domain:
Each tree is his, each blade of grass
Under my feet. How dare I pass,
A tatter'd vagrant, half insane,
Scarce fit to slink by the roadside,
These lordly bounds, where, with his Bride—
I tell you, kneeling on this sod,
He is, before the face of God,
My husband!
I was innocent
The day I first set eyes on him,
Eyes that no tears had yet made dim,
Nor fever wild. The day he went,
(That day, O God of Heaven!) I found,
In the sick brain slow turning round,
Dreadful forebodings of my fate.
A week was not so long to wait:
Another pass'd,—and then a third.
My face grew thin—eyes fix'd—I heard
And started if a feather stirr'd.
Each night ‘to-morrow!’ heard me say,
Each morning ‘he will come to-day.’
Who taps upon the chamber door?
A letter—he will come no more.
Then stupor. Then a horrid strife
Trampling my brain and soul and life,—
Hunting me out as with a knife
From home—from home—
The day I first set eyes on him,
Eyes that no tears had yet made dim,
Nor fever wild. The day he went,
(That day, O God of Heaven!) I found,
In the sick brain slow turning round,
Dreadful forebodings of my fate.
A week was not so long to wait:
Another pass'd,—and then a third.
My face grew thin—eyes fix'd—I heard
And started if a feather stirr'd.
Each night ‘to-morrow!’ heard me say,
Each morning ‘he will come to-day.’
Who taps upon the chamber door?
A letter—he will come no more.
Then stupor. Then a horrid strife
Trampling my brain and soul and life,—
Hunting me out as with a knife
From home—from home—
And I was young,
And happy. May his heart be wrung
As mine is! learn that even I
Was something, and at least can die
Of such a wound. In any case
He'll see the death that's in my face.
To die is still within the power
Of girls with neither rank nor dower.
And happy. May his heart be wrung
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Was something, and at least can die
Of such a wound. In any case
He'll see the death that's in my face.
To die is still within the power
Of girls with neither rank nor dower.
| Life and Phantasy | |