Pomander of Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pomander of Verse

By E. Nesbit

Nesbit, E. (1858-1924)

[dedication]

ROSEMARY

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ROSEMARY

A SONG OF PARTINGS

DEDICATION

Queen of my Life, who gave me for my song

The richest crown a poet ever wore, Since I have given you songs a whole year long,
Stoop, of your grace, and take this one song more.

I

It was upon a golden first June day
I chanced to take the quiet meadow way,
The flowers and grasses met across my feet—
Red sorrel, daisies, and pale meadow-sweet,
With buttercup that set the field ablaze—
The fields have no such flowers now-a-days—
The hedges all along were pearly white;
And there I met with Chloris, all alone,
I drew her face to lean against my own.
The branch of May that hid her maiden eyes

Was scented like the rose of Paradise—
The May-bough fell: I knew what youth was worth,
And sunshine and the pleasant green-gowned earth,
When first love rhymed to summer and delight.
Yet, since my ship must sail away that day,
Despair new-born met new-born joy half-way.
And I, 'mid rapture and tears, found voice to say,
“Farewell—my Love—to leave you is to die,
I never shall forget you, dear!—Good-bye!”

II

At parting from Clarinda life was gray,
With the cold haze of mutual weariness;
The treasure our souls were bartered to possess,
We saw as ashes in the cold new day,
And only longed for leave to steal away
And wash remembrance from our tired eyes,
To cleanse our lips of kisses and of lies,
And to forget the barren fairy gold
For which we had journeyed such a weary road,
Had borne so hard a chain, so great a load,
Yet none the less was the old story told;
The old refrain re-iterate none the less,
“My life's one love,” we said, with sigh for sigh,
“I never can forget you, dear!—Good-bye!”

III

You were so innocent, so sure, so shy,
Life was a chart well-marked for you, you knew—
With rocks and quicksands plainly set in view,
And, fitly beaconed by a heavenly star,
The port you sought marked unmistakeably,
Attainable, and not so very far.
So of your charity you chose to try
To take a pirate bark to haven with you.
Ah! child, I had learned to steer on other seas,
Through other shoals—by other stars than these.
My chart had other ports you knew not of,
And so, one day, my black sails took the breeze,
And, ere you knew it, I was leagues away:
Yet not so far but you could hear me cry
Across the waters of your sheltered bay—
“Farewell, my child! Farewell, my only love!
I never can forget you, dear!—Good-bye!”

IV

When I had courted Chloe half a year
She bade me go—she could not hold me dear,
We parted in the orchard, very late:
The dew lay on the white sweet clover flowers,

The moon shone through the pear-tree by the gate,
And on the grass the blossoms fell in showers.
“Pray Heaven,” I cried, “to bless you—none the less
That you have cursed my life eternally!”
She laughed—my pretty china shepherdess,
Kissed her white hand towards the white full moon.
“Up there,” she said, “the folk who say farewell
Never intone it to a funeral bell,
But sing it to the sweet old-fashioned tune!
Go there and learn!”—“I have learned that tune,” quoth I,
“‘I never can forget you, dear!—Good-bye!’”

V

In that far land where myrtles dream of love,
Where soft winds whisper through the orange grove;
And, 'twixt the sapphire of the seas and skies,
The sunshine of perpetual summer lies,
I brought white flowers to lie where Clemence lay.
The shutters, closed, strove with the radiant day,
And in her villa all was still and chill.
Flowers die, they say, but these flowers never will,—
Whenever I see a rose I smell them still;

I laid them by her on the strait white bed:
There were no kisses given, no tears were shed,
And never a whisper of farewell was said;
Yet, when they had laid her underneath the clay,
And paid their prayers and tears, and gone their way,
My heart stirred, and I found the old word to say—
This time—this one time—and this last time—true:
“White lady, my white flowers touch you where you lie,
I never shall forget you! Dear, good-bye!”

Envoy.

Queen of my life, and of the songs I sing,
Whose love sets life to such a royal tune;
This song of parting to your hands I bring,
As I bring honour and faith and everything:
Because I know our parting shall be soon—
Since violets hardly live one happy moon,
And love, full-fledged, is ready to take wing;
But, when he flies, part we the silent way,
And, if you ever loved me, do not say:
“Farewell, my only love—I love you still,
I never will forget you!”—For you will!

THE GHOST

Now that the curtains are drawn close,
Now that the fire burns low,
And on her narrow bed the rose
Is stark laid out in snow;
Now that the wind of winter blows
Bid my heart say if still it knows
The step it used to know.

I hear the silken gown you wear
Sweep on the gallery floor,
Your step comes up the wide, dark stair
And pauses at my door.
My heart with the old hope flowers fair—
That shrivels to the old despair,
For you come in no more!

THE WAY OF THE WOOD

Where baby oaks play in the breeze
Among wood-sorrel and fringed fern,
Through the green garments of the trees
The quivering shafts of sunlight burn,

And all along the wet green ride,
The dripping hazel-boughs between,
The spotted orchis, stiff with pride,
Stands guard before the eglantine.

Sweet chestnuts droop their long, sharp leaves
By knotted tree roots, mossed and brown,
Round which the honeysuckle weaves
Its scented golden wild-wood crown.

O wood, last year you saw us meet,
For her your leaves and buds were gay,
Your moss spread velvet for her feet.
Your flowers upon her bosom lay.

This year you wear your raiment bright,
As fair as ever yet you wore.
And, none the less, the world's delight
Walks in your ways no more, no more.

QUIETA NE MOVETE

Dear, if I told you, made your sorrow certain,
Showed you the ghosts that o'er my pillow lean,
What joy were mine—to cast aside the curtain
And clasp you close with no base lies between!

You have given all, and still would find to give me
More love, more tenderness than ever yet:
You would forgive me—ah, you would forgive me,
But all your life you never would forget.

And I, thank God, can still in your embraces
Forget the past, with all its strife and stain,
—But if you, too, beheld the evil faces,
I should forget them never, never again!

ENVOYS

Brown leaves forget the green of May,
The earth forgets the kiss of Spring;
And down our happy woodland way
Gray mists go wandering.

You have forgotten too, they say;
Yet, does no stealthy memory creep
Among the mist wreaths, ghostly gray,
Where spell-bound violets sleep?

Ah, send your thought sometimes to stray
By paths that knew our lingering feet.
My thought walks there this many a day,
And they, at least, may meet.

THE GARDEN

Choked with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying,
Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow,
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing:
“Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.”

Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it;
“My plot,” you said, “rich harvest yet shall give,”
With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it,
With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live.

So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you,
One little pure white flower grew by-and-by;
You could not pluck my flower—alas! how should you?
You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.

THROUGH THE WOOD

Through the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.

Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?

Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood,
All our own—and withered as ever a flower of May.

A KENTISH GARDEN

There is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.

There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.

There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.

There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.

And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still—till the sun shines again.

And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.

There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!