Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! my darling, when your eyes were gleaming
Out of lustrous darkness full on me,
Did I ever dream that they were dreaming
Of what had not been, and what might be?

Of what might have been, but will be never,
For life's current swept our souls apart,
Joined us for awhile that it might sever,
Whirled us in a moment heart from heart.

Did I ever think your mind was thinking,
Dearest, of the thoughts that stirred in mine?
Did your eyes drink in what mine were drinking,
While I watched and waited for a sign?

Was it so, and has it all no meaning?
Does life's failure hang so sure a screen?
Can it be that long years intervening
Make the past as it had never been?

166

Was it nothing that, when day had ended,
And my soul was dreaming and astray,
Your sweet face was somehow strangely blended
With each shifting scene that marked its way?

Was it nothing that your bright eyes floated
Through the darkness as I lay awake?
Nothing that your shadowy form I noted
In the glimmer of the wan day-break?

What was each of these but Love's true token?
Are they meaningless—then Love is nought;
Dead, forsooth because her vows are broken,
Killed by gaining all that she had sought.

No—it cannot be; Love lives for ever—
Love the very glory of God's face—
Though her enemies, with dark endeavour,
League to break her beauty, mar her grace;

Tearing from her arms what she would cherish,
Turning cold each heart that she would wed;
Yet it cannot be that Love should perish,
She is living when we deem her dead.

167

Dead and knelled by mocking demon laughter,
But her truest life is born of Death,
Life that grows into the great Hereafter,
Till men breathe her in at every breath.

And I loved—and you, my own! my dearest!
Loved, and both of us with hearts aflame
Reached forth yearning hands to what was nearest,
Eager to embrace whatever came.

Yes, for was it not that wondrous season,
When the inner Being wakes from sleep,
And wild Fancy, spurning calmer Reason,
Boldly springs into the airy deep?

Then I, fierce with fervent aspiration,
Crossed your pathway, and you saw me pass;
And you clothed me with your heart's creation,
With a beauty more than mine, alas!

And you turned on me such eyes of yearning,
That I failed for longing and delight;
For, I thought, the soul is surely burning
Through those orbs that are so strangely bright.

168

And I drew your soul to mine and kissed it,
Kissed, and held it in a long embrace,
Clinging close to it,—but once I missed it,
And my arms were clasping empty space.

Was it strange that, when our souls were waking,
We should grasp at light beyond our reach;
Dream, perchance, that heart for heart was breaking,
Dream that we were yearning, each for each?

Till, as from an evil dream, you started,
Slowly faltering, “it can never be;”
For your love like slumber had departed,
And you tore away your heart from me:—

Me—not me—for oh! you never knew me,
Never dug into the depths within:
I was shy, and you were slow to woo me,
Till you deemed that there was nought to win.

Child! I bless you, though you love no longer,
Bless you for the love that once you bore;—
Flows the river fuller, deeper, stronger,
Though the flooding showers fall no more.

169

As a thunder cloud in gorge of mountain,
Darkening day with many a vivid gleam,
Strikes the cradle of some thirsty fountain,
Startles into life the trickling stream;—

Till from rock to rock the torrent roaring,
Flashing onwards with resistless might,
Thunders to the vale beneath it, pouring
Foam and fury down its craggy course.

So the fervour of my sudden passion
Quickened all the fountains of my love,
Filled and fed them in unwonted fashion,
Hurled them seawards from the heights above.

Now the stream, its foam and fury ended,
In calm majesty that is not sleep,
Journeys onward waiting to be blended
With the limitlessly rolling deep.

Dream not dearest that my heart is colder;
Though no more its whitening waters dash
'Gainst the barrier of each broken boulder,
Though no more they froth and foam and flash;

170

Still the river of my love is rushing,
Gathering force and fulness as it goes,
Pure as when its infant wave was gushing
From the storm-girt cradle whence it flows—

Yes, it flows, and love was never aimless,
Yet I know not what I pant to gain,
For the mistress of my heart is nameless,
And to find her is to lose again.

And the light of life is ever fleeing;
Still I follow it—my faith is strong:
I shall somewhere find the phantom being,
That has led and lured me on so long.

Dark the way through which I needs must travel;
Little do I know of now or then:
Tangled is the maze I must unravel;
Wide the world that lies beyond my ken.

And my heart, whose hopes seem born to perish,
Waits for guiding light from Heav'n above:
Only this I know, and this I cherish,—
I am evermore in love with love.