Poems of Passion Part 8

BLEAK WEATHER.

Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew The white snows are falling; And all through the woods where I wandered with you The loud winds are calling; And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune, Neath the oak, you remember, O'er hill-top and forest has followed the June And left us December.

He has left like a friend who is true in the sun And false in the shadows; He has found new delights in the land where he's gone, Greener woodlands and meadows.

Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea, Let it drift on the heather; We can sing through it all: I have you, you have me.

And we'll laugh at the weather.

The old year may die and a new year be born That is bleaker and colder: It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn, For our love makes us bolder.

Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea, You friend in fair weather!

But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee, By two warm hearts together.

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AN ANSWER.

If all the year was summer time, And all the aim of life Was just to lilt on like a rhyme, Then I would be your wife.

If all the days were August days, And crowned with golden weather, How happy then through green-clad ways We two could stray together!

If all the nights were moonlit nights, And we had naught to do But just to sit and plan delights, Then I would wed with you.

If life was all a summer fete, Its soberest pace the "glide,"

Then I would choose you for my mate, And keep you at my side.

But winter makes full half the year, And labor half of life, And all the laughter and good cheer Give place to wearing strife.

Days will grow cold, and moons wax old.

And then a heart that's true Is better far than grace or gold-- And so, my love, adieu!

I cannot wed with you.

YOU WILL FORGET ME.

You will forget me. The years are so tender, They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep; This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep; The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over Will banish the last rosy colors away, And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.

You will forget me. The one boon you covet Now above all things will soon seem no prize; And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.

The one drop to-day, that you deem only wanting To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem But a valueless mite; and the ghost that is haunting The aisles of your heart will pa.s.s out with the dream.

You will forget me; will thank me for saying The words which you think are so pointed with pain.

Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.

I shall pa.s.s from your life--I shall pa.s.s out forever, And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.

Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never, And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

THE FAREWELL OF CLARIMONDE.

(Suggested by the "Clarimonde" OF Theophile Gautier.)

Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.

Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night, Thy hungering heart forever must regret me, And starve for those lost moments of delight.

Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties, Nor fears of h.e.l.l, nor hopes of Heaven beyond: Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties--- The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde.

Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chalice Shall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss, When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace, And life flowed on in one eternal kiss.

Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee, From viewless lands, by paths no man e'er trod!

I braved all fears, all dangers dared, to teach thee A love more mighty than thy love of G.o.d.

Think not in all His Kingdom to discover Such joys, Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fond I clasped thee--kissed thee--crowned thee my one lover: Thou canst not find another Clarimonde.

I knew all arts of love: he who possessed me Possessed all women, and could never tire; A new life dawned for him who once caressed me; Satiety itself I set on fire.

Inconstancy I chained: men died to win me; Kings cast by crowns for one hour on my breast: And all the pa.s.sionate tide of love within me I gave to thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest?

Yet, for the love of G.o.d, thy hand hath riven Our welded souls. But not in prayer well conned, Not in thy dearly-purchased peace of Heaven, Canst thou forget those hours with Clarimonde.

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THE TRIO.

We love but once. The great gold orb of light From dawn to even-tide doth cast his ray; But the full splendor of his perfect might Is reached but once throughout the livelong day.

We love but once. The waves, with ceaseless motion, Do day and night plash on the pebbled sh.o.r.e; But the strong tide of the resistless ocean Sweeps in but one hour of the twenty-four.

We love but once. A score of times, perchance, We may be moved in fancy's fleeting fas.h.i.+on-- May treasure up a word, a tone, a glance; But only once we feel the soul's great pa.s.sion.

We love but once. Love walks with death and birth (The saddest, the unkindest of the three); And only once while we sojourn on earth Can that strange trio come to you or me.

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.