Poems by William Dean Howells Part 12

The sound of his horse's feet grows faint, The Rider has pa.s.sed from sight; The day dies out of the crimson west, And coldly falls the night.

She presses her tremulous fingers tight Against her closed eyes, And on the lonesome threshold there, She cowers down and cries.

THE SARCASTIC FAIR.

Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee, that stings.

RAPTURE.

In my rhyme I fable anguish, Feigning that my love is dead, Playing at a game of sadness, Singing hope forever fled,--

Trailing the slow robes of mourning, Grieving with the player's art, With the languid palms of sorrow Folded on a dancing heart.

I must mix my love with death-dust, Lest the draught should make me mad; I must make believe at sorrow, Lest I perish, over-glad.

DEAD.

I.

Something lies in the room Over against my own; The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom Of candles, burning alone,-- Untrimmed, and all aflare In the ghastly silence there!

II.

People go by the door, Tiptoe, holding their breath, And hush the talk that they held before, Lest they should waken Death, That is awake all night There in the candlelight!

III.

The cat upon the stairs Watches with flamy eye For the sleepy one who shall unawares Let her go stealing by.

She softly, softly purrs, And claws at the banisters.

IV.

The bird from out its dream Breaks with a sudden song, That stabs the sense like a sudden scream; The hound the whole night long Howls to the moonless sky, So far, and starry, and high.

THE DOUBT.

She sits beside the low window, In the pleasant evening-time, With her face turned to the sunset, Reading a book of rhyme.

And the wine-light of the sunset, Stolen into the dainty nook, Where she sits in her sacred beauty, Lies crimson on the book.

O beautiful eyes so tender, Brown eyes so tender and dear, Did you leave your reading a moment Just now, as I pa.s.sed near?

Maybe, 'tis the sunset flushes Her features, so lily-pale; Maybe, 'tis the lover's pa.s.sion, She reads of in the tale.

O darling, and darling, and darling, If I dared to trust my thought; If I dared to believe what I must not, Believe what no one ought,--

We would read together the poem Of the Love that never died, The pa.s.sionate, world-old story Come true, and glorified.

THE THORN.

"Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, But this has none, I know."

She clasped my rival's Rose Over her breast of snow.

I bowed to hide my pain, With a man's unskilful art; I moved my lips, and could not say The Thorn was in my heart!

THE MYSTERIES.

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, Holding my breath; There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept At the dark mystery of Death.

Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, Spent with the strife,-- O mother, let me weep upon thy breast At the sad mystery of Life!

THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS.

"The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much of General Hooker's battle was fought above the clouds, on the top of Lookout Mountain."--GENERAL MEIG'S _Report of the Battle before Chattanooga_.

Where the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain, Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe, Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout Mountain Raining life-blood like water on the valleys down below.

O, green be the laurels that grow, O sweet be the wild-buds that blow, In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low.

Light of our hope and crown of our story, Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deeds of daring glow, While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory, On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe.

O, soft be the gales when they go Through the pines on the summit where they blow, Chanting solemn music for the souls that pa.s.sed below.