 | Lyrics (1895) |  |
144
DEA HYPA
When I have pulled my curtains soft,
And bolted-to the door,
A strange uncertain footstep oft
Comes faltering on the floor.
And bolted-to the door,
A strange uncertain footstep oft
Comes faltering on the floor.
When I would learn the gracious deeds
Of lovers and of kings,
She leans across the page, and reads
A tale of bitter things.
Of lovers and of kings,
She leans across the page, and reads
A tale of bitter things.
When I would ponder deep, and leave
The cares that matter naught,
What use, she cries, to weave and weave
An endless web of thought?
The cares that matter naught,
What use, she cries, to weave and weave
An endless web of thought?
145
Then, when I rise to do my part,
To order and decide,
She mocks and grips my faltering heart,
And shudders at my side.
To order and decide,
She mocks and grips my faltering heart,
And shudders at my side.
She cries, and smiles with bitter lips,
‘Why ponder, why arrange
A falling life that slides and slips
From groove to groove of change?’
‘Why ponder, why arrange
A falling life that slides and slips
From groove to groove of change?’
I know she has no force to slay,
No liberty to harm,
But 'twixt me and the cheerful day
She weaves a shadowy charm.
No liberty to harm,
But 'twixt me and the cheerful day
She weaves a shadowy charm.
And when I wander through the wood,
The bickering stream along,
She mutters in the falling flood,
And chills the throstle's song.
The bickering stream along,
She mutters in the falling flood,
And chills the throstle's song.
146
Beside the softest bed she stops
To count the sleeper's breath;
Within the sweetest cup she drops
The vinegar of death.
To count the sleeper's breath;
Within the sweetest cup she drops
The vinegar of death.
Ah no! not death; that were too grave,
Too deep, too far away;
She thrusts me to some perilous cave,
With faint and fallen day;
Too deep, too far away;
She thrusts me to some perilous cave,
With faint and fallen day;
And when I think to find release
From all my shadowy woes,
She robs my slumber of its peace,
My grave of its repose.
From all my shadowy woes,
She robs my slumber of its peace,
My grave of its repose.
Yet when she tires of dreamy strife,
And waives her dismal spell,
I think I never love my life,
My careful life, so well.
And waives her dismal spell,
I think I never love my life,
My careful life, so well.
147
The sun outbreaks; the throstles sing
With all their simple might.
Dear God, it is Thy sacred spring!—
What makes my heart so light?
With all their simple might.
Dear God, it is Thy sacred spring!—
What makes my heart so light?
| Lyrics (1895) | |