The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 95

This May--what magic weather!

Where is the loved one's face?

In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, But the house is narrow, the place is bleak Where, outside, rain and wind combine With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, With a hostile eye at my flus.h.i.+ng cheek, With a malice that marks each word, each sign!

O enemy sly and serpentine, Uncoil thee from the waking man!

Do I hold the Past Thus firm and fast Yet doubt if the Future hold I can?

This path so soft to pace shall lead Through the magic of May to herself indeed!

Or narrow if needs the house must be, Outside are the storms and strangers: we-- Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, --I and she!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

SONG From "The Saint's Tragedy"

Oh! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing In the shade of the whispering trees.

Oh! that we two sat dreaming On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down, Watching the white mist steaming Over river and mead and town.

Oh! that we two lay sleeping In our nest in the churchyard sod, With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast, And our souls at home with G.o.d!

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

FOR HE HAD GREAT POSSESSIONS

Ah! marvel not if when I come to die And follow Death the way my fancies went Year after fading year, the last mad sky Finds me impenitent; For though my heart went doubting through the night, With many a backward glance at heaven's face, Yet found I many treasures of delight Within this pleasant place.

I shall not grieve because the girls were fair And kinder than the world, nor shall I weep Because with crying lips and clinging hair They stole away my sleep.

For lacking this I might not yet have known How high the heart could climb, or waking seen The mountains bare their silver b.r.e.a.s.t.s of stone From their chaste robes of green.

Though it were all a sin, within the mirth And pain of life I found a song above Our songs, in her who scattered on the earth Her glad largesse of love; And though she held some dream that was not ours In some far place that was not for our feet, Where blew across the gladder, madder flowers A wind more bitter-sweet.

Ah! who shall hearten when the music stops, For joy of silence? While they dreamed above She showed me love upon the mountain tops And in the valleys, love.

And while the wise found heaven with their charts And lore of souls, she made an earth for me More sweet than all, and from our beating hearts She called the pulsing sea.

So marvel not if in the days when death Shall make my body mine, I do not cry For hours and treasure lost, but with my breath Praise my mortality.

For lo! this place is fair, and losing all That I have won and dreamed beneath her kiss, I would not see the light of morning fall On any world but this.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

WINDLE-STRAWS

She kissed me on the forehead, She spoke not any word, The silence flowed between us, And I nor spoke nor stirred.

So hopeless for my sake it was, So full of ruth, so sweet, My whole heart rose and blessed her, --Then died before her feet.

Edward Dowden [1843-1913]

JESSIE

When Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if G.o.d caressed Twin babes upon His knees-- Twin babes that, each to other pressed, Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are blessed,

But when I think if we must part, And all this personal dream be fled-- O then my heart! O then my useless heart!

Would G.o.d that thou wert dead-- A clod insensible to joys and ills-- A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!

Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897]

THE CHESS-BOARD

My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes?

Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave p.a.w.ns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sliding, through the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done: Dispersed is all its chivalry.

Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made, And many a game with Fortune played;-- What is it we have won?

This, this at least,--if this alone:

That never, never, never more, As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together!

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891]

AUX ITALIENS

At Paris it was, at the Opera there;-- And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me"?

The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye.

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.