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Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, This house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair; Her picture haunts the room; On the carved shelf beneath it there, They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been, Her cloak upon the wall, Broidered, and gilt, and faded green, Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantle laid, The sh.e.l.ls in a pale row, Are those of some dim little maid, A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her; She goes and comes again; And longings thrill, and memories stir, Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbors walk, Among the blossoms tall; Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, Of Lydia not at all.
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]
AFTER
Oh, the littles that remain!
Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window, sound of bees;-- These, but these.
Three times sitting down to bread; One time climbing up to bed; Table-setting o'er and o'er; Drying herbs for winter's store; This thing; that thing;--nothing more.
But just now out in the lane, Oh, the scent of mint was plain!
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]
MEMORIES
Of my ould loves, of their ould ways, I sit an' think, these bitther days.
(I've kissed--'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme-- More mouths than one in my mad time!)
Of their soft ways an' words I dream, But far off now, in faith, they seem.
Wid betther lives, wid betther men, They've all long taken up again!
For me an' mine they're past an' done-- Aye, all but one--yes, all but one!
Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill That one gerrl stays close wid me still.
Och! up to mine her face still lifts, An' round us still the white May drifts;
An' her soft arm, in some ould way, Is here beside me, night an' day;
But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, Wid all that love she couldn't keep,
Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, This many a year--this many a year!
Arthur Stringer [1874-
TO DIANE
The ruddy poppies bend and bow, Diane! do you remember?
The sun you knew s.h.i.+nes proudly now, The lake still lists the breezes vow, Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains.
Sing low--where is Diane?
Diane! do you remember?
I come to find you through the years, Diane! do you remember?
For none may rule my love's soft fears.
The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you through your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls, High, low--where is Diane?
Diane! do you remember?
I crush the poppies where I tread, Diane! do you remember?
Your flower of life, so bright, so red-- She does not hear--Diane is dead.
I pace the sunny bowers alone Where naught of her remains but stone.
Sing low--where is Diane?
Diane does not remember.
Helen Hay Whitney [18--
"MUSIC I HEARD"
Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread.
Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this gla.s.s.
These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pa.s.s.
For it was in my heart you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes.
And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!
Conrad Aiken [1889-
HER DWELLING-PLACE
