Feda with Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The after-morrow he sailed back that way,
And left his boat at anchor in the bay
Till darkness gathered with the even dew;
And so on many morrows, till he knew
She would not fail at noontide when he came.

And he had learned to call her by her name,
Baptised Félicitá, and short, Félise,
Or Féda, as her baby lips would please
His love, who taught them lisping. She was born
At Florence, in that quarter, on the morn
Of St. Felicitas, the saint who gave
Her seven sons into one fiery grave
For the faith's sake, and followed, giving praise
That she had seen them nobly end their days
In the old time of struggle. Therefore she
Was called Félicitá and it should be
A happy omen for the child, they said.

And in the Lily city, too, was laid
The life that died for her to live; since then
They never went to that first home again,
But it was ever to him as a shrine
That held the memory of some divine
Past presence, where he dared not walk alone.

“And yet,” she said, “I seem to know each stone
“In Giotto's tower, and every winding street,
“And every name in Florence sounds as sweet
“As music and as home. And, oh! to see
“Just once my city,—only once to be
“In San Miniato's graveyard, looking down
“Across the stream, the bridges, and the town,
“Over the roofs and gardens, right away
“To the far Carrara mountains,—some blue day,
“I might be almost happy—so it seems—
“If they be happy that fulfil their dreams.”

Oh! those were goodly days when each one learned
To know the other, till his whole soul yearned
To lift the shadow from that young child's heart;
And many a noon they met again, to part

With “till to-morrow,” in the even dim:
And needed that to-morrow; then with him
That unknown sense of loneliness first grew,
Nor passed when many gathered, and he knew
For him was now but one face fair of all
Fair faces, one voice seeming musical,
One only in whose presence was content.

And so the sunny June days came and went.

She was an endless wonder; most he loved
The whiteness of her heart, so far removed
Above the world's mistrust, that she could bring
Her books to read with him, or sit and sing—
Those bursts of song the mountain echoes stole—
In perfect open innocence of soul:
The world had never touched her, pure as truth
And trusting all, and unashamed of youth.

So wise in years, so innocently young—
When he would chance upon her as she sung,
He seemed to see around her, sitting there,

Mute angels, listening for some new sweet air
To sing in the high heavenly place.
Then oft
She told him of their life, with voice grown soft
Almost to weeping, and grave eyes bent low:
It was so lonely there; “How should they know
“Or feel what I feel, who but come and go
“Between blank wastes of nunnery wall, soul-bound
“From morn to eve, in one eternal round
“Of prayers and aves, and so wholly miss
“The essence and the end of prayer in this
“The symbol, and they think to make me stay
“In this pale sisterhood for ever and a day.

“Oh, my good friend, I think I have such faith
“As his was, such as trusts in love, and saith,
“‘Be glad to live, nor care to question why;’
“We cannot reason out that mystery—
“We only know that ever, day by day,
“Old wrongs and shadows slowly wane away,
“That naught recurs as it has been before,
“But always better; that the light is more,

“And human lives win slowly through the gloom,
“From that sad sentence of eternal doom
“To hope of fair things far away;—for me
“Are endless wonders, that they cannot see
“Walled in their narrow bounds; when overhead
“The morning sun streams in upon my bed:
“It is the sun that wakes me, not the stain
“Of the Saint's passion pictured on the pane,
“But in their cells the very window-bars
“Are set so close they never see the stars;
“And I am weary when they only say,
“‘Child, if thine heart is troubled, kneel and pray.’”

Then there came round the festa-morn whereon
Their patron saint was honoured; she was gone
Home to her convent, and for three long days
He would not see her,—so he went his ways
Among the villages and up the brow
Of the sea-mountains. He was quite sure now
That he had found out love;—her wistful face
And all her ways, and every maiden grace
Of speech or gesture had become a part
Of his own life, and there was in his heart

A strange unrest of gladness; a great light
Had broken in upon his days, more bright
Than he had known or dreamed of, and the world
Put on new glories, and the dawns unfurled
A lordlier pageantry, and everywhere
Seemed waves of joy that thrilled through the quick air
Intense and real, and the fields and trees
Had a near meaning, and far o'er the seas
He smiled to watch the little sails go by,
Sun-gold between the water and the sky,
And sang, “sail on, your seas are not so wide,
“But love has havens on the farther side.”

Then once he saw her, for the convent town
Was decked with flowers, and the nuns came down
In long procession, and the streets were gay
With banners, the sea-folk kept holiday—
And all the boats along the shore were dressed
With flags or branches, and the grey priest blessed
Their nets and tackle and the fishing gear,
As was the custom there since many a year.

He saw one figure, as he watched unseen,
Bearing a wreath of woven evergreen,
A white rose here and there,—she rather seemed
Some old-world daughter such as Anton dreamed,
Bound for a rustic altar in the wood
Of Faunus or Pomona, as she stood
Leading the music with that voice of hers,
Among the incense-bearing choristers.
Then they swept onward, and the chanting died
Among the echoes on the farther side,
And she was gone.
How long the hours seem
When love is waiting; and how like a dream
That flits to waking ere we hold it fast,
They hurry when love enters in at last!
So, slowly, slowly the long days went by
Till once again their trysting time was nigh.

Yet morning waxed to noontide, and the noon
Waned slow and sultry, and the living tune
Of song-birds silenced in the midday glow;
He heard the chiming hours come and go
Across the drowsy silence, long, so long

From chime to chime; and then again the song
Of some loud wood-bird rang reveille out clear,
Till every tree was singing far and near.
And still she tarried, and he reasoned not—
For love is humble, and she hath forgot,
He thought, maybe that the three days are past,
But she will come to-morrow; then at last
In the long shadows that the even cast,
He saw her white dress flutter through the trees.

And now a red sun kissed the margin of the seas.