Poems of Passion | Page 8

dost not tire.
Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth!?When overlong the season runs, I find?Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death,?After a time do pall upon my mind.
Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes?To read the story thou hast read so oft--?Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs,?Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?
Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee,?The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same;?The loves of men but vary in degree--?They find no new expressions for the flame.
Thou must know all they utter ere they speak,?As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays.?Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak??I think thou must grow weary of their ways.
I pity thee, Isaura! I would be?The humblest maiden with her dream untold?Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee,?And find life's rarest treasures stale and old.
I pity thee; for now, let come what may,?Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all.?Wherewith can salt be salted? And what way?Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?
[Illustration: TIRED OF THE OFT-READ STORY]
THE COQUETTE.
Alone she sat with her accusing heart,?That, like a restless comrade frightened sleep,?And every thought that found her, left a dart?That hurt her so, she could not even weep.
Her heart that once had been a cup well filled?With love's red wine, save for some drops of gall?She knew was empty; though it had not spilled?Its sweets for one, but wasted them on all.
She stood upon the grave of her dead truth,?And saw her soul's bright armor red with rust,?And knew that all the riches of her youth?Were Dead Sea apples, crumbling into dust.
Love that had turned to bitter, biting scorn,?Hearthstones despoiled, and homes made desolate,?Made her cry out that she was ever born,?To loathe her beauty and to curse her fate.
NEW AND OLD.
I and new love, in all its living bloom,?Sat vis-a-vis, while tender twilight hours?Went softly by us, treading as on flowers.?Then suddenly I saw within the room?The old love, long since lying in its tomb.?It dropped the cerecloth from its fleshless face?And smiled on me, with a remembered grace?That, like the noontide, lit the gloaming's gloom.
Upon its shroud there hung the grave's green mould,?About it hung the odor of the dead;?Yet from its cavernous eyes such light was shed?That all my life seemed gilded, as with gold;?Unto the trembling new love '"Go," I said?"I do not need thee, for I have the old."
NOT QUITE THE SAME.
Not quite the same the spring-time seems to me,?Since that sad season when in separate ways?Our paths diverged. There are no more such days?As dawned for us in that lost time when we?Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams;?Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems
Not quite the same.
Not quite the same is life, since we two parted,?Knowing it best to go our ways alone.?Fair measures of success we both have known,?And pleasant hours, and yet something departed?Which gold, nor fame, nor anything we win?Can all replace. And either life has been
Not quite the same.
Love is not quite the same, although each heart?Has formed new ties that are both sweet and true,?But that wild rapture, which of old we knew,?Seems to have been a something set apart?With that lost dream. There is no passion, now,?Mixed with this later love, which seems, somehow,
Not quite the same.
Not quite the same am I. My inner being?Reasons and knows that all is for the best.?Yet vague regrets stir always in my breast,?As my soul's eyes turn sadly backward, seeing?The vanished self that evermore must be,?This side of what we call eternity,
Not quite the same.
FROM THE GRAVE.
When the first sere leaves of the year were falling,?I heard, with a heart that was strangely thrilled,?Out of the grave of a dead Past calling,?A voice I fancied forever stilled.
All through winter and spring and summer,
Silence hung over that grave like a pall,?But, borne on the breath of the last sad comer,?I listen again to the old-time call.
It is only a love of a by-gone season,?A senseless folly that mocked at me?A reckless passion that lacked all reason,?So I killed it, and hid it where none could see.
I smothered it first to stop its crying,?Then stabbed it through with a good sharp blade,?And cold and pallid I saw it lying,?And deep--ah' deep was the grave I made.
But now I know that there is no killing?A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death.?There is no hushing, there is no stilling?That which is part of your life and breath.
You may bury it deep, and leave behind you?The land, the people, that knew your slain;?It will push the sods from its grave, and find you?On wastes of water or desert plain.
You may hear but tongues of a foreign people,?You may list to sounds that are strange and new;?But, clear as a silver bell