Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
| I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
| I. | I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| II. |
|
|
 | Poems |  |
I.
As by a camp-fire in the wilderness
Two hunters meet, that o'er the Prairie long
Have roamed on distant tracts companionless;
So to this city, drifted by the stress
That draws the nations hither—in the throng
We stood together in this mortal press
A moment face to face; Thou didst not guess
At mine, and I—forgive me then this wrong—
By favour of the light that fitful fell
Did let thee pass unchallenged; so that look,
Thine olden look, so long unseen, so well
Remembered, troubled me; thine aspect shook
The strong foundations of my soul, I knew
It was the Past within its grave that drew
A long, deep, sighing breath, and like a pent
Volcanic force, this smouldering element
Would kindle at thy glance; I felt a stir
Among the ashes of a sepulchre
Long sealed, long smooth with grass, with flowers o'ergrown,
A word from Thee, and bursting through the stone
The Dead had risen up! before one shrine
We knelt together; though the fires are cold
We lighted there, I deem that still we hold
A mournful faith unto this worship old
And lovely, counting it for half Divine.
Now is that altar broken, and a sign
From Heaven hath warned us hence—we may not bring
The living Past again, we can but wring
Its secrets from its grasp, disquieting
Like one of old, with awful charm its sleep:
Oh, leave its rest unbroken, I assign
A day far hence to meet Thee—now thine eye
Would vex me with its kindness, silently
Would turn where mine is turning;—even yet,
I am as one that wistful o'er a wave
Stoops down, intent, and sees beneath it lie
The fragments of a wreck, that glistering wet
Tempt down the eager outstretched hand; I crave
A little longer pause, for soon or late
Come all things to a calm;—I do but wait.
Two hunters meet, that o'er the Prairie long
Have roamed on distant tracts companionless;
So to this city, drifted by the stress
That draws the nations hither—in the throng
We stood together in this mortal press
A moment face to face; Thou didst not guess
At mine, and I—forgive me then this wrong—
By favour of the light that fitful fell
Did let thee pass unchallenged; so that look,
Thine olden look, so long unseen, so well
Remembered, troubled me; thine aspect shook
The strong foundations of my soul, I knew
It was the Past within its grave that drew
183
Volcanic force, this smouldering element
Would kindle at thy glance; I felt a stir
Among the ashes of a sepulchre
Long sealed, long smooth with grass, with flowers o'ergrown,
A word from Thee, and bursting through the stone
The Dead had risen up! before one shrine
We knelt together; though the fires are cold
We lighted there, I deem that still we hold
A mournful faith unto this worship old
And lovely, counting it for half Divine.
Now is that altar broken, and a sign
From Heaven hath warned us hence—we may not bring
The living Past again, we can but wring
Its secrets from its grasp, disquieting
Like one of old, with awful charm its sleep:
Oh, leave its rest unbroken, I assign
A day far hence to meet Thee—now thine eye
Would vex me with its kindness, silently
Would turn where mine is turning;—even yet,
I am as one that wistful o'er a wave
Stoops down, intent, and sees beneath it lie
The fragments of a wreck, that glistering wet
Tempt down the eager outstretched hand; I crave
A little longer pause, for soon or late
Come all things to a calm;—I do but wait.
184
I turned, and thou wert gone—
O then my heart rose sudden up and passed
A hasty judgment; saying, I had cast
A Life within that moment from me, more
Than life would give again, and chiding sore
Like one defrauded of its right, it took
Its arrows tipped with olden love, a look,
A word remembered barbs them—oh, my friend,
I turn to thee for solace;—draw this glaive
Deep plunged unto the hilt from out my breast!
Thy hand it was unwittingly that drave
It home, and none beside can give it rest;
Speak comfort to my soul, oh reconcile
My spirit with itself! upon thy track
My heart runs after Thee; yes, mile by mile,
It follows Thee, it does not call thee back!
O then my heart rose sudden up and passed
A hasty judgment; saying, I had cast
A Life within that moment from me, more
Than life would give again, and chiding sore
Like one defrauded of its right, it took
Its arrows tipped with olden love, a look,
A word remembered barbs them—oh, my friend,
I turn to thee for solace;—draw this glaive
Deep plunged unto the hilt from out my breast!
Thy hand it was unwittingly that drave
It home, and none beside can give it rest;
Speak comfort to my soul, oh reconcile
My spirit with itself! upon thy track
My heart runs after Thee; yes, mile by mile,
It follows Thee, it does not call thee back!
| Poems | |