Chapter III

O violin!--Cease, cease within
My soul, O haunting violin!
In vain, in vain, you bring again
Back from the past the blissful pain
Of all the love then spoken;
When on my breast, at happy rest,
A sunny while her head was pressed--
Peace, peace to these wild memories!
For, like my heart naught remedies,
Her violin lies broken.

HER VESPER SONG.

The _Summer_ lightning comes and goes
In one pale cloud above the hill,
As if within its soft repose
A burning heart were never still--
As in my bosom pulses beat
Before the coming of his feet.

All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose
Breathes dewy balm about the place,
As if the dreams the garden knows
Took immaterial form and face--
As in my heart sweet thoughts arise
Beneath the ardour of his eyes.

The moon above the darkness shows
An orb of silvery snow and fire,
As if the night would now disclose
To heav'n her one divine desire--
As in the rapture of his kiss
All of my soul is drawn to his.

The cloud, it knows not that it glows;
The rose knows nothing of its scent;
Nor knows the moon that it bestows
Light on our earth and firmament--
So is the soul unconscious of
The beauties it reveals through LOVE.

AT PARTING.

What is there left for us to say,
Now it has come to say good-by?
And all our dreams of yesterday
Have vanished in the sunset sky--
What is there left for us to say,
Now different ways before us lie?

A word of hope, a word of cheer,
A word of love, that still shall last,
When we are far to bring us near
Through memories of the happy past;
A word of hope, a word of cheer,
To keep our sad hearts true and fast.

What is there left for us to do,
Now it has come to say farewell?
And care, that bade us once adieu,
Returns again with us to dwell--
What is there left for us to do,
Now different ways our fates compel?

Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And look the love that shall remain--
When severed so by many a mile--
The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And trust in GOD to meet again.

CARISSIMA MEA.

I look upon my lady's face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

It is not made, as others sing
Of their dear loves, like ivory,
But like a wild rose in the spring:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her brow is low and very fair,
And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly,
Their wonder haunts me night and day:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,
Twin curves of pencilled ebony,
Within their spans contain my fate:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,
So small and sweet, it well may be
That it for me is yet reserved:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Between her hair and rounded chin,
Calm with her soul's calm purity,
There lies no shadow of a sin:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Of perfect form, she is not tall,
Just higher than the heart of me,
Where'er I place her, all in all:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

She is not shaped, as some have sung
Of their dear loves, like some slim tree,
But like the moon when it is young:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her hands, that smell of violet,
So white and fashioned gracefully,
Have woven round my heart a net:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Yea, I have loved her many a day;
And though for me she may not be,
Still at her feet my love I lay:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Albeit she be not for me,
GOD send her grace and grant that she
Know nought of sorrow all her days:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._

_Margery._