Afterwhiles | Page 7

they rode and rode; and the steeds they neighed?And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides?Flickered and lightened and glanced and played?Like the moon on rippling tides;
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong,?And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long,?And jostled in time to the teeming throng,?And their knightly song besides.
Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur,?And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild?In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her?As one at a wilful child--,?And as knight and lady away they flew,?And the banners flapped, and the falcon too,?And the lances flashed and the bugle blew,?He kissed his hand and smiled.
And then, like a slanting sunlit shower,?The pageant glittered across the plain,?And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower?Was only a crimson stain.?And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast,?As he blends these words with the wailing blast:?"It is the King of the Year rides past!"?And Autumn is here again.
A Bride
"O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowy?Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold?That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy,?Graceful and fair as a goddess of old:?Over her jewels she flung herself drearily,?Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast,?Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily?Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest--.?And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror?To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her!
"Weary--?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery--??Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears?And wash with their dews one white face from her history,?Set like a gem in the red rust of years??Nothing will rest her-- unless he who died of her?Strayed from his grave, and in place of the groom,?Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her,?Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom--.?And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror?To heel in dumb agony down and weep near her!
The Dead Lover
Time is so long when a man is dead!?Some one sews; and the room is made?Very clean; and the light is shed?Soft through the window-shade.
Yesterday I thought: "I know?Just how the bells will sound, and how?The friends will talk, and the sermon go,?And the hearse-horse bow and bow!"
This is to-day; and I have no thing?To think of-- nothing whatever to do?But to hear the throb of the pulse of a wing?That wants to fly back to you.
A Song
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;?There is ever a something sings alway:?There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,?And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.?The sunshine showers across the grain,?And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;?And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,?The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,?Be the skies above or dark or fair,?There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--?There is ever a song somewhere, my dear?There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,?In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:?The robin pipes when the sun is here,?And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.?The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,?And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;?But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,?There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,?Be the skies above or dark or fair,?There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--?There is ever a song somewhere, my dear--?There is ever a song somewhere!
When Bessie Died
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,?And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;?If the white feet into the grave had tripped--"
When Bessie died--?We braided the brown hair, and tied?It just as her own little hands?Had fastened back the silken strands?A thousand times-- the crimson bit?Of ribbon woven into it?That she had worn with childish pride--?Smoothed down the dainty bow-- and cried?When Bessie died.
When Bessie died--?We drew the nursery blinds aside,?And as the morning in the room?Burst like a primrose into bloom,?Her pet canary's cage we hung?Where she might hear him when he sung--?And yet not any note he tried,?Though she lay listening folded-eyed.
When Bessie died--?We writhed in prayer unsatisfied:?We begged of God, and He did smile?In silence on us all the while;?And we did see Him, through our tears,?Enfolding that fair form of hers,?She laughing back against His love?The kisses had nothing of--?And death to us He still denied,?When Bessie died--?When Bessie died.
The Shower
The landscape, like the awed face of a child,?Grew curiously blurred; a hush of death?Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild?The zephyr held its breath.
No wavering glamour-work of light and shade?Dappled the shivering surface of the brook;?The frightened ripples in their ambuscade?Of willows thrilled and shook.
The sullen day grew darker, and anon?Dim flashes of pent