Poems of Passion Part 7

LOVE'S COMING.

She had looked for his coming as warriors come, With the clash of arms and the bugle's call: But he came instead with a stealthy tread, Which she did not hear at all.

She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun, As he rode like a prince to claim his bride: In the sweet dim light of the falling night She found him at her side.

She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye Would wake her heart to a sudden glow: She found in his face the familiar grace Of a friend she used to know.

She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul, As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife: He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm, And a peace which crowned her life.

OLD AND NEW.

Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays, Old times, old loves, old friends.h.i.+p, and old wine.

Why should the old monopolize all praise?

Then let the new claim mine.

Give me strong new friends when the old prove weak Or fail me in my darkest hour of need; Why perish with the s.h.i.+p that springs a leak Or lean upon a reed?

Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet, When all the grace and beauty leave the old; When like a rose it withers at my feet, Or like a hearth grows cold.

Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer, In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days; I hold a sunlit present far more dear, And worthy of my praise.

When the old deeds are threadbare and worn through, And all too narrow for the broadening soul, Give me the fine, firm texture of the new, Fair, beautiful, and whole!

PERFECTNESS.

All perfect things are saddening in effect.

The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes, The matchless tinting on the royal rose Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked, Love's supreme moment, when the soul unchecked Soars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows-- These hold a deeper pathos than our woes, Since they leave nothing better to expect.

Resistless change, when powerless to improve, Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray; Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day; The lose will not seem quite so fait, and love Must find its measures of delight made less.

Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOVE AND LIFE]

ATTRACTION.

The meadow and the mountain with desire Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest Surged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast, And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire.

A mighty river rolled between them there.

What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?

What could the meadow do but look and yearn, And gem its bosom to conceal despair?

Their seething pa.s.sion agitated s.p.a.ce, Till, lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook, The river fled, the meadow leaped and took The leaning mountain in a close embrace.

GRACIA.

Nay, nay, Antonio! nay, thou shalt not blame her, My Gracia, who hath so deserted me.

Thou art my friend, but if thou dost defame her I shall not hesitate to challenge thee.

"Curse and forget her?" So I might another, One not so bounteous-natured or so fair; But she, Antonio, she was like no other-- I curse her not, because she was so rare.

She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses; Not blood, but suns.h.i.+ne, through her blue veins ran Her soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses; She was too great for loving but a man.

None but a G.o.d could keep so rare a creature: I blame her not for her inconstancy; When I recall each radiant smile and feature, I wonder she so long was true to me.

Call her not false or fickle. I, who love her, Do hold her not unlike the royal sun, That, all unmated, roams the wide world over And lights all worlds, but lingers not with one.

If she were less a G.o.ddess, more a woman, And so had dallied for a time with me, And then had left me, I, who am but human, Would slay her and her newer love, maybe.

But since she seeks Apollo, or another Of those lost G.o.ds (and seeks him all in vain) And has loved me as well as any other Of her men loves, why, I do not complain.

AD FINEM.

On the white throat of the' useless pa.s.sion That scorched my soul with its burning breath I clutched my fingers in murderous fas.h.i.+on, And gathered them close in a grip of death; For why should I fan, or feed with fuel, A love that showed me but blank despair?

So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel-- I meant to strangle it then and there!

I thought it was dead. But with no warning, It rose from its grave last night, and came And stood by my bed till the early morning, And over and over it spoke your name.

Its throat was red where my hands had held it; It burned my brow with its scorching breath; And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it, "A love like this can know no death."

For just one kiss that your lips have given In the lost and beautiful past to me I would gladly barter my hopes of Heaven And all the bliss of Eternity.

For never a joy are the angels keeping, To lay at my feet in Paradise, Like that of into your strong arms creeping, And looking into your love-lit eyes.

I know, in the way that sins are reckoned, This thought is a sin of the deepest dye; But I know, too, if an angel beckoned, Standing close by the Throne on High, And you, adown by the gates infernal, Should open your loving arms and smile, I would turn my back on things supernal, To lie on your breast a little while.

To know for an hour you were mine completely-- Mine in body and soul, my own-- I would bear unending tortures sweetly, With not a murmur and not a moan.

A lighter sin or a lesser error Might change through hope or fear divine; But there is no fear, and h.e.l.l has no terror, To change or alter a love like mine.

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

[Ill.u.s.tration:]