Chapter V

How you stare at my eyes!--Well! my lips!--must they languish
For kisses to redden?--"My eyes are as bright
As the jewel I drown in my hair, with its anguish
Of tortuous fire that quivers to-night"?
Tears may be.--This showy?--That silly white flower
Were better?--For me its simplicity? no!--
The gem I prefer to the lily.--The hour
Has struck: I am ready: my fan: let us go.

A GUINEVERE

Sullen gold down all the sky;
Roses and their sultry musk;
Whippoorwills deep in the dusk
Yonder sob and sigh.--

You are here; and I could weep,
Weep for joy and suffering....
"Where is he"?--He'd have me sing--
There he sits, asleep.

Think not of him! he is dead
For the moment to us twain--
Hold me in your arms again,
Rest on mine your head.

"Am I happy?" ask the fire
When it bursts its bounds and thrills
Some mad hours as it wills
If those hours tire.

He had gold. As for the rest--
Well you know how _they_ were set,
Saying that I must forget
And 'twas for the best.

_I_ forget?--But let it go!--
Kiss me as you used of old.
There; your kisses are not cold!
Can you love me so?

Knowing what I am to him,
To that gouty gray one there,
On the wide verandah, where
Fitful fireflies swim.

Is it tears? or what? that wets
Eyes and cheeks;--on brow and lip
Kisses! soft as bees that sip
Sweets from violets.

See! the moon has risen; white
As this open lily here,
Rocking on the dusky mere,
Like a silent light.

Let us walk... So soon to part!--
All too soon! But he may miss.
Give me but another kiss--
It will heat my heart

And the bitter winter there.--
So; we part, my Launcelot,
My true knight! and am I not
Your true Guinevere?

Oft they parted thus, they tell,
In that mystical romance...
Were they placed, think you, perchance,
For such love, in Hell?

No! it can not, can not be!
Love is God, and God is love:
And they live and love above,
Guinevere and he.

I must go now.--See! there fell,
Molten into purple light,
One wild star. Kiss me good night,
And once more. Farewell.

PERLE DES JARDINS

What am I, and what is he,
Who can take and break a heart,
As one might a rose, for sport,
In its royalty?

What am I that he has made
All this love a bitter foam
Blown about the wreck-filled gloam
Of a soul betrayed?

He who of my heart could make
Hollow crystal, where his face,
Like a passion, had its place,
Holy, and then break!

Shatter with neglect and sneers!--
But these weary eyes are dry,
Tearless clear; and if I die
They shall know no tears.

But my soul weeps. Let it weep!
Let it weep, and let the pain
In my heart and in my brain
Cry itself to sleep.--

Ah! the afternoon is warm;
And the fields are green and fair;
Many happy creatures there
Through the woodland swarm.

All the summer land is still,
And the woodland stream is dark
Where the lily rocks its barque
Just below the mill....

If they found me icy there
'Mid the lilies, and pale whorls
Of the cresses in my curls,
Wet, of raven hair!--

Poor Ophelia! are you such?
Would you have him thus to know
That you died of utter woe
And despair o'ermuch?

No!--such acts are obsolete:
Other things we now must learn:--
Though the broken heart will burn,
Let it show no heat.

So I'll write him as he wrote,
Coldly, with no word of scorn--
He shall never know a thorn
Rankles here!... Now note:--

"You'll forget," he says; "and I
Feel 'tis better for us twain:
It may give you some small pain,
But, 'twill soon be by.

"You are dark and Maud is light.
I am dark. And it is said
Opposites are better wed.--
So I think I'm right."

"You are dark and Maud is fair"!--
I could laugh at his excuse
If the bitter, mad abuse
Were not more than hair!

But I'll write him, as if glad,
Some few happy words--that might
Touch upon some past delight
That last year we had.

Not one line of broken vows,
Sighs or hurtful tears--unshed!
Faithless hearts--far better dead!
Nor a withered rose.

But a rose! this rose to wear,--
Perle des Jardins, all elate
With sweet life and delicate,--
When he weds her there.

So; 'tis finished. It is well--
Go, thou rose. I have no tear,
Word or kiss for thee to bear,
And no woe to tell.

Only be thus full of life,
Cold and proud, dispassionate,
Filled with neither love nor hate,
When he calls her wife.

FACE TO FACE

Dead! and all the haughty fate
Fair on throat and face of wax,
Calm on hands, crossed still and lax,
Cold, dispassionate.

Dead! and no word whispered low
At the dull ear now would wake
One responsive chord or make
One wan temple glow.

Dead! and no hot tear would stir
Aught of woman, sweet and fair,
Woman soul in feet and hair,
Once that smiled in her.

She is dead, oh God! and I--
I must live! though life be but
One long, hard, monotonous rut
For me till I die.

Creeds might help in such a case:
But no sermon could have wrought
More of faith than you have taught
With your pale dead face.

Now I see, oh, now I see
My mistake!--so very small,
Yet so great it bungled all,
_All_ for you and me.

Oft I said, "I feel, I'm sure
She could never live that life!
She is still my own true wife,
She is good and pure!"

You were pure and I bemoiled!
That you loathed me, it was just;
Weak of soul and left of lust
Vulgar, low, and soiled....

Closed--the eyes once filled with dreams!
Great, proud eyes!... I see them yet,
Miniature nights of lucid jet
Filled with starry gleams.

Sealed--the lips; poor, faded lips!
Once as red as life could make--
Sweet wild roses, half awake,
Dewy to their tips.

Hair!--imperial still, and warm
As a Grace's; where one stone,
Jeweled, lay ensnared and shone
Like a star in storm.

Eyes!--at parting big with pain...
God! I see them still! the tear
In them!--big as eyes of deer
Led by lights and slain....

Woman true, I falsely blamed;
Whom I killed with scorn and pride;
Woman pure, of whom I lied;
With the nameless named:

All you said, Sweet, has come true!--
Ah! this life had woe enough
For the little dole of love
Giv'n to me and you.

Do you hear me? do you know
What I feel now? how it came?
You, beyond me like a flame,
You, before me like the snow....

Dead! and all my heart's a cup
Hollowed for repentant tears,
Bitter in the bitter years,
Slowly brimming up.

Peace! 'tis well! But might have been
Better.--Yes, God's time makes right!--
Better for me in His sight
With my soul washed clean.

Do you hear me? do you know
How my heart was all your own?
How my life is left alone
Now with naught but woe?

Peace! be still!--I kiss your hair.
Sweet, good-by. Upon your breast
Let this long white lily rest--
God will find it there:

There beyond the sad world and
Clouds and stars and silent skies,
Where your eyes shall meet His eyes,
And--He'll understand.

THE EVE OF ALL-SAINTS

I

This is the tale they tell
Of an Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village belle,
Beautiful Amy Dean.

II

Did I love her? God and she,
They know and I!
Ah, she was the life of me--
Whatever else may be
Would God that I could die!

III

That Hallowe'en was dim;
The frost lay white
Under strange stars and a slim
Moon in the graveyard grim,
Pale with its slender light.

IV

They told her: "Go alone,
With never a word,
To the burial-plot's unknown
Grave with the oldest stone,
When the clock on twelve is heard.

V

"Three times around it pass,
With never a sound;
Each time a wisp of grass
And myrtle pluck; then pass
Out of the ghostly ground.

VI

"And the bridegroom that's to be,
At smiling wait,
With a face like mist to see,
With graceful gallantry
Will bow you to the gate."

VII

She laughed at this and so
Bespoke us how
To the burial-place she'd go.--
And I was glad to know,
For I'd be there to bow.

VIII

An acre from the farm
The village dead
Lay walled from sun and storm;
Old cedars, of priestly form,
Waved darkly overhead.

IX

I loved; but never could say
The words to her;
And waited, day by day,
Nursing the hope that lay
Under the doubts that were.--

X

She passed 'neath the iron arch
Of the legended ground;--
And the moon, like a twisted torch,
Burned over one lonesome larch;--
She passed with never a sound.

XI

Three times the circle traced;
Three times she bent
To the grave that the myrtle graced;
Three times--then softly faced
Homeward and slowly went.

XII

Had the moonlight changed me so?
Or fear undone
Her stepping soft and slow?
Did she see and did not know?
Or loved she another one?

XIII

Who knows?--She turned to flee
With a face so white
It haunts and will haunt me:--
The wind blew gustily:
The graveyard gate clanged tight.

XIV

Did she think it I or--what,
Clutching her dress?
Her face so wild that not
A star in a stormy spot
Shows half so much distress.

XV

I spoke; but she answered naught.
"Amy," I said,
"'Tis I!"--as her form I caught...
Then laughed like one distraught,
For the beautiful girl was dead!...