Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

The woman I loved has been gone a year—
(A year from my lips, a year from my breast!)—
I saw her lie cold on her flow'r-strewn bier
Ere they bore her away to her lonely rest.

I had loved her as never man loved before,
Or promised maiden, or plighted wife:
I have mourn'd for her loss upon sea and shore,
And known, without her, a death in life.

I have miss'd her letters, her pray'rs, her tears,
Her sighs, her laughter, her chiding tone,
Her foolish fancies, her idle fears,
And her love that seem'd all my own!

I have sought for her spirit by day and night—
(Oh, for a look, for a touch, for a breath,
For a whisper'd word from my soul's delight
To bring me life from the realms of Death!)

Thus have I lived for a whole long year,
But my comrades have never known aught of this,
And one has just whisper'd a word in my ear,
A word to give comfort, nor take amiss;

“You are well, my friend, you are gay,” he said;
“I am glad at heart that they told me true;
I had fear'd you were mourning for one who is dead,
And who should have been nothing to you.”

And then he told me of how he knew—
And of how he would prove to me, by and by,
That the one I had loved so well was untrue,
That her life had been all a lie.

And I? I answer'd him never a word—
I utter'd no cry, nor of rage or pain,
But stood blankly staring, and meekly heard—
In an hour he will come again.

He will bring me proofs, in black and white,
Written words in a well-feign'd hand,
But I shall know how to read aright—
I shall profit and understand!

(Cold she lay on her flow'r-strewn bier,
Cold, and quiet, and draped in white,
With her hair comb'd carefully back from her ear)—
Is he wrong, I wonder, or right?

Here have I sat since he said his say—
(A year? A day? How long ago?)—
So her lips could lie, and her eyes betray? . . .
In an hour I shall read and know!

. . . Yet the lips in this pictured face look true,
And the eyes gaze so tenderly back into mine!
The lips are so red, and the eyes so blue,
But mute, they can give no sign!

Speak, lips that are silent! Speak, questioning eyes!
Come back, light step, to the echoing stair!
I have call'd to her thus till she seem'd to rise
And stand in the doorway, there;

And sometimes she comes as an angel Queen,
Wing'd with silver and crown'd with light,
With calm pure eyes, and a serious mien,
In garments of dazzling white.

And sometimes she comes as so oft of yore,
Cloak'd, and veil'd, and quietly dress'd,
And flies to my arms ere I close the door—
It is thus that I love her best!

Will she come to-night in her cloak and veil,
Or with angel-lustre around her brow?
Will she cling to my knees as a penitent pale?
No matter! I know her now!

I know her now, that woman who died,
With her pleading voice and her earnest gaze—
Her false blue eyes, and her lips that lied,
And her treacherous, winning ways! . . .

Yet the lips in her pictured face look true . . .
Sweetest of lips that are seal'd and set!
Tenderest eyes, that are closed to view—
Shall my mind mistrust you, my soul forget?

Cold she lay on her flow'r-strewn bier—
I could not question, nor she reply;
And now, when her heart has been still but a year,
Shall I harden my own for a lie?

Nay, Love of my life! it shall never be said
When our innermost thoughts stand forth reveal'd,
That,—trusting you living,—I doubted you dead
When your lips were silent and seal'd!

If it was as he says, and I never knew,
Will knowing it now bring me better cheer? . .
One heart, at least, shall beat loyal and true;—
He may speak, but I will not hear!