 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
210
A MOMENT.
How long would you love me? A lifetime? Ah, that is too long; let us say
A moment. Life's best's but a moment, and life itself scarcely a day.
A moment. Life's best's but a moment, and life itself scarcely a day.
Perhaps you might love me that moment; perhaps, while you quaffed
From life's brimming cup, with your sweet face turned up, love's exquisite draught;
From life's brimming cup, with your sweet face turned up, love's exquisite draught;
All the spirit insatiate thirsting its sweetness to drain,
And a hurry of rapture swift rushing through heart and through brain;
And a hurry of rapture swift rushing through heart and through brain;
All being condensed to a drop, all the soul, all the sense,
Interfused as by fire, intermingled and throbbing with passion intense;
Interfused as by fire, intermingled and throbbing with passion intense;
Just one moment of Life's culmination, its waves' utmost height,
While it lifts its green cavern of opal all sunfringed, in quivering light;—
While it lifts its green cavern of opal all sunfringed, in quivering light;—
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Its foam-rose that topples and spreads at the crest of the Fountain's full stress,
That the impulse that lifts cannot hold, that dies of its very excess;
That the impulse that lifts cannot hold, that dies of its very excess;
Just one rapturous moment, while love you inhaled like the soul of a flower,
For a breath space, an indrawing breath space, that words have no power
For a breath space, an indrawing breath space, that words have no power
At their best to express, so divine, so enchanting, its soul-piercing scent,
Thrilling through all the nerves, but at last in a sigh to be breathed out and spent;
Thrilling through all the nerves, but at last in a sigh to be breathed out and spent;
Just one moment, no longer; and then, all the strength and desire
Faded out, all the passion exhausted, naught left of the fire
Faded out, all the passion exhausted, naught left of the fire
But the sullen, gray, desolate ashes,—oh, then, would you cling to me? Say,
Would you love me, or hate me, or scorn me, and ruthlessly fling me away?
Would you love me, or hate me, or scorn me, and ruthlessly fling me away?
Who knows? Love and hate are so near, joy and pain, ice and fire, hope and fear,
That I doubt, the next moment, this moment so tender, so perfect, so dear.
That I doubt, the next moment, this moment so tender, so perfect, so dear.
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This maddening moment I know, let the next what it chooses reveal;
'T is enough that you love me this moment, let Fate, as she will, spin her wheel,
'T is enough that you love me this moment, let Fate, as she will, spin her wheel,
Weave her web, cast her net, unto grief or despair make us prey;
This is mine, this is ours, and, once given, can never be taken away.
This is mine, this is ours, and, once given, can never be taken away.
What though, from our dream when we wake, our love a mere folly may seem?
What is life at the best but a sleep? what is love but a dream?
What is life at the best but a sleep? what is love but a dream?
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |