 | The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
135
Interludes
NORA McCARTY.
[IRISH AIR]
1.
Nora is pretty,Nora is witty,
Witty and pretty as pretty can be!
She 's the completest
Of girls, and the neatest,
The brightest and sweetest:
But she 's not for me.
Mavourneen!
2.
Nora, be still, you!Nora, why will you
Be witty and pretty as pretty can be,
So strong and so slender,
So haughty and tender,
So sweet in your splendor,—
And yet not for me?
Mavourneen!
140
MURDER DONE.
1.
Invisible fingers of airJust lifted the curtain's fold,
Just rippled the calm of her loosened hair,—
Beautiful, treacherous gold!
And she stood like the thought of a sculptor, carved
In marble, snowy and cold;
But her pure, sweet look was as foul a lie
As ever a woman told!
2.
A statue lay stark at my feet,Dead to the finger-tips.
A darkness hung in the lengths of her hair,
And shadowed her perjured lips.
I strangled her voice, but, O heaven!
I could not strangle one moan
That followed me out in the silent streets
As I fled through the midnight alone.
141
Am I guilty as if I were caught
With my hands at her throat? Is it murder done?—
I murdered her in my thought!
142
GLAMOURIE.
Under the night,
In the white moonshine,
Sit thou with me,
By the graveyard tree,
Imogene.
In the white moonshine,
Sit thou with me,
By the graveyard tree,
Imogene.
The fireflies swarm
In the white moonshine,
Each with its light
For our bridal night,
Imogene.
In the white moonshine,
Each with its light
For our bridal night,
Imogene.
Blushing with love,
In the white moonshine,
Lie in my arms,
So, safe from alarms,
Imogene.
In the white moonshine,
Lie in my arms,
So, safe from alarms,
Imogene.
Paler art thou
Than the white moonshine.
Ho! thou art lost,—
Thou lovest a Ghost,
Imogene!
Than the white moonshine.
Ho! thou art lost,—
Thou lovest a Ghost,
Imogene!
151
THE POET.
He wasted richest gifts of God.
But here 's the limit of his woes,
Sleep rest him! See, above him grows
The very grass whereon he trod.
But here 's the limit of his woes,
Sleep rest him! See, above him grows
The very grass whereon he trod.
He walked with dæmons, ghouls, and things
Unsightly ... terrors and despairs,
And ever in the blackened airs
A dismal raven flapt its wings.
Unsightly ... terrors and despairs,
And ever in the blackened airs
A dismal raven flapt its wings.
Behold! within this narrow grave
Is shut the baser part of him.
Behold! he could not wholly dim
The genius gracious heaven gave,—
Is shut the baser part of him.
Behold! he could not wholly dim
The genius gracious heaven gave,—
For strains of music here and there,
Weird murmurings, vague, prophetic tones,
Are blown across the silent zones
Forever in the midnight air.
Weird murmurings, vague, prophetic tones,
Are blown across the silent zones
Forever in the midnight air.
| The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |