 | Benoni |  |
166
[Thou wert a timid girl in those wild days—]
Thou wert a timid girl in those wild days—
‘Too young to love!’ But now, whatever eyes
Grow brighter in thy presence must behold
A woman, full proportion'd into shape
Luxuriant, and of soul no longer vague,
But knit and sphered for life: Howbeit, to me
Thou art a girl—yet no, a phantom pale,
A memory growing sadder and more sere
With deepening distance. Oh that something more
Of thee than this were always near me!
‘Too young to love!’ But now, whatever eyes
Grow brighter in thy presence must behold
A woman, full proportion'd into shape
Luxuriant, and of soul no longer vague,
But knit and sphered for life: Howbeit, to me
Thou art a girl—yet no, a phantom pale,
A memory growing sadder and more sere
With deepening distance. Oh that something more
Of thee than this were always near me!
Yet
I know not if I love thee—scarcely know
If this be sorrow, or a subtle sense
That gathers pleasure out of mournfulness,
And decking with grave-garlands, kept from death
By a forced rain of tears, its quiet bower,
Doth dwell therein, drench'd in delicious grief!
It may be—there is guile as deep as this
Within us: yet I deem the traitorous heart
Not utterly untrue—not quite so black
To suck a sweet elixir from the dregs
Of old misdoings,—make its very sin
Bear fruit to fancy and send up a growth
Of pleasant thoughts, in guise of penitence,
For self-deceiving greed to batten on.
O hard mistrust, and timid trembling tread
E'en on the stoutest seemings!
I know not if I love thee—scarcely know
If this be sorrow, or a subtle sense
That gathers pleasure out of mournfulness,
And decking with grave-garlands, kept from death
By a forced rain of tears, its quiet bower,
167
It may be—there is guile as deep as this
Within us: yet I deem the traitorous heart
Not utterly untrue—not quite so black
To suck a sweet elixir from the dregs
Of old misdoings,—make its very sin
Bear fruit to fancy and send up a growth
Of pleasant thoughts, in guise of penitence,
For self-deceiving greed to batten on.
O hard mistrust, and timid trembling tread
E'en on the stoutest seemings!
Can it be,
Whatever bursts of bitterness at night
Or earnest hearkenings for some step afar
Upon the waste, are ours, that they are false?
They are not false—I know it: therefore come,
O far-off soul! I would thou mightest come
And sit within the moonlight—so,—and I
Would wholly doff the grandeur of the man,
The strong supporting nature, as unfit
And most abhorrent, then; I would be low
Beside thee, wailing penetrative words
Such as thy lot demanded and my heart
Gave from its core; then would I look and see
If any wandering ripples did disturb
The smoothness of thy forehead,—if the course
Of mellowing tears, that, like an unseen brook
In the deep meadows, bless the yielding cheek
With richer bloom, were moist upon thy face;
Then waiting, watching, I might haply see
Thy sorrow fading inwards, and behind
Its dying darkness a clear lovely light
Emerge into thine eyes, not all unmixt
With tenderer glows and dewdrops of the dawn;
Oh, that would bring a morning to my soul,
A golden morning! Then my hand should go
A seeking thine; and having found it, feel,
In mad suspense, if any circlet wound
About that mystic finger: if there were,
I would arise and see thy face no more,
Only in dreams and pictures, till I die:
But if there were not—
Whatever bursts of bitterness at night
Or earnest hearkenings for some step afar
Upon the waste, are ours, that they are false?
They are not false—I know it: therefore come,
O far-off soul! I would thou mightest come
And sit within the moonlight—so,—and I
Would wholly doff the grandeur of the man,
The strong supporting nature, as unfit
And most abhorrent, then; I would be low
Beside thee, wailing penetrative words
168
Gave from its core; then would I look and see
If any wandering ripples did disturb
The smoothness of thy forehead,—if the course
Of mellowing tears, that, like an unseen brook
In the deep meadows, bless the yielding cheek
With richer bloom, were moist upon thy face;
Then waiting, watching, I might haply see
Thy sorrow fading inwards, and behind
Its dying darkness a clear lovely light
Emerge into thine eyes, not all unmixt
With tenderer glows and dewdrops of the dawn;
Oh, that would bring a morning to my soul,
A golden morning! Then my hand should go
A seeking thine; and having found it, feel,
In mad suspense, if any circlet wound
About that mystic finger: if there were,
I would arise and see thy face no more,
Only in dreams and pictures, till I die:
But if there were not—
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