Louise de la Valliaere and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Comes a new day; now pealeth near and far,
Rending the silence with its clamorous jar,
The midnight bell. Thy set-dead face, Beloved!
Glimmereth in the darkness like a star.

Thy meek, fair doves within this convent nest
Sleep with soft lips apart in childlike rest;
Dreamless clear eyes 'neath large white lids unmoved,
And frail hands folded on each sinless breast.

One with closed shining wings bends o'er each bed,
Haloes the moonlight round each little head;
Could I but rest like these Thy stainless ones!
Nay, I should dream, and in night's hour of dread,

Things walk in dreams 'twere deathly fair to meet.
Down the long corridor with footsteps fleet
Nightly I speed, and on these friendly stones
Lie through the haunted hours below Thy feet.

What though the air be full of sounds and sighs,
Silken-soft murmurs, whispers and replies,
Evil mysterious feet that steal and stir,
Rustle and trail of unseen draperies?

In thy Rood's shelter flee my vain alarms;
Powers of the night may weave their nets and charms,
Here I shall fear no wiles of Lucifer,
He cannot touch me in Thine outspread arms.

Yet he doth take strange shapes to tempt Thine own;
Now if I looked should one come dancing down,
Gold-haired and deep-eyed, blooming on the dark,
Wearing on his fair brows a kingdom's crown.

So shall I cower, laying cheek and eyelid wet,
To Thy dead feet for tears grown colder yet;
He shall not dare to drag me from this ark.
Weary am I and very sore beset.

Here will I take sweet sleep till yonder pane
Glimmereth grey, and night begins to wane,
And the small birds within the elm-tree boughs
Twitter and pipe and turn to sleep again.

And the cocks crow, and ere the sound be ceased,
From the mysterious chambers of the East
Blows a small wind, and all the grey gleams rose.
Then through the gold gates steppeth the high priest.

And it may be my feet will go in dreams
Down by Touraine's fair fields and pleasant streams,
Where my white girlhood's full fleet days were spent,
There the breeze freshens, and a great sun gleams.

Sleeps the old château through the roseate hours,
Drifts the white odorous bloom in almond bowers;
And the long grasses, hot and indolent,
Murmur of April and her wine-rich showers.

Like little white-winged birds that fluttering fly,
Lustrous small clouds come sailing down the sky,
And the great cattle, breathing thymy sweet,
Stand where gold cowslips in the grass are high.

Cherries are ripe and red-lipped in the nets,
And the old pear tree that its youth forgets,
Hoary with lichen, stands with aged feet
Deep in a purple mist of violets.

Oh, but to hear, its bloomy boughs among,
How the brown throstle chanteth loud and long!
He all unseen doth sway with shut bright eyes
In the delirious passion of his song.

Surely, these things had brought me full content,
Were I Louise clear-eyed and innocent,
Fifteen unsullied summers 'neath the skies.
I am Louise, sinner and penitent.

Ah! the child's heart o'erfull with trust and joy!
Lord! it grew world-sore, stained with earth's alloy;
Till one came smiling by, and taking it,
Broke it as children break a worn-out toy.

Even this poor heart Thou, Lord, didst not refuse.
Long Thou didst wait as one that knocks and sues
At a heart's door that opes not to admit,
While on his gold locks fall the dank night dews.

But my heart heard Thee calling through the years,
Though I had turned away and closed mine ears.
O'er the world's noise Thy cry came clear and sweet,
Sure Thou art gracious to a sinner's tears.

Now I remember how a woman came,
Meek were her eyelids, on her brows sat shame,
Laid unrebuked her tired head at Thy feet.
She was a sinner, Magdalen her name.

And in Thy Resurrection's day of grace,
First Thou didst shine before Thy mother's face;
Next Thou didst seek in tender strange disguise
Magdalen, weeping in the garden ways.

Take my bruised heart in those fair hands of Thine;
In the white city where Thy love doth shine,
It will find healing through the centuries;
Hasten the hour for which I faint and pine,

When I shall lie with broken failing breath,
Hearing the steps of one who hasteneth;—
Flame-shod, but garmented with grey is he,
Thy messenger, Thy fair strong angel, Death.

Women are many, well-loved wives and such,
Who quail to hear him, shudder from his touch;
His beautiful grave face these cannot see,
Eyes grow but clear through weeping overmuch.

How should they know how wondrous good he is
For whom a husband's arms are rest and bliss;
In whose glad eyes a tall fair son smiles down,
Whose lips receive a little daughter's kiss?

Ah! how these things are sweet! but I, outworn,
Whose body that hath sinned is racked and torn,
Look upward to the Cross and thorny crown,
And yearn and agonize for that new morn,

When I shall enter at the narrow gate,
And climb the steep defiles and desolate,
Knowing the path leads to clear heights and fine,
Where in the white noon Christ Himself doth wait.

I am but this, a broken reed that He
Hath bound with His strong fingers tenderly.
Lord! where Thy Father's many mansions shine,
Wilt Thou not keep a last least place for me?