Poems of Passion | Page 3

How can I wait?
How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;
They reach forth to a
future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;

And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast upon your face, I
no more sing,
How can I wait?
How can I wait? The morning breaks the spell
A pitying night has
flung upon my soul.
You are not near me, and I know full well
My
heart has need of patience and control;
Before we meet, hours, days,
and weeks must roll.
How can I wait?
How can I wait? Oh, love, how can I wait
Until the sunlight of your
eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems so desolate?
Until your
hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;
Until you come again, oh,
love of mine,

How can I wait?
COMMUNISM.
When my blood flows calm as a purling river,
When my heart is
asleep and my brain has sway,
It is then that I vow we must part
forever,
That I will forget you, and put you away
Out of my life, as
a dream is banished
Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes;

That I know it will be, when the spell has vanished,
Better for both of
our sakes.
When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason,
I know it is wiser for
us to part;
But Love is a spy who is plotting treason,
In league with
that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
They whisper to me that the King is
cruel,
That his reign is wicked, his law a sin;
And every word they
utter is fuel
To the flame that smoulders within.
And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot
With the fever of
youth and its mad desires,
When my brain in vain bids my heart be
quiet,
When my breast seems the centre of lava-fires,
Oh, then is
the time when most I miss you,
And I swear by the stars and my soul
and say
That I will have you and hold you and kiss you,
Though the
whole world stands in the way.
And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal,
My fierce emotions roam
out of their lair;
They hate King Reason for being royal;
They
would fire his castle, and burn him there.
Oh, Love! they would clasp
you and crush you and kill you, In the insurrection of uncontrol.

Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you
That is raging in my
soul?
THE COMMON LOT.
It is a common fate--a woman's lot--
To waste on one the riches of
her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the

interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your eyes and wait
For some response to my fond
gaze and touch,
It seems to me there is no sadder fate
Than to be
doomed to loving overmuch.
Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind--
So thoughtful of my
comfort, and so true.
Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind,

Know that I am not loved as I love you.
One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
Will fill my soul with music
and with song;
And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
The heart-tone
from your voice, my world goes wrong.
And oftentimes you think me childish--weak--
When at some
thoughtless word the tears will start;
You cannot understand how
aught you speak
Has power to stir the depths of my poor heart.
I cannot help it, dear,--I wish I could,
Or feign indifference where I
now adore;
For if I seemed to love you less you would,
Manlike, I
have no doubt, love me the more.
'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
A constant heart; for fact
doth daily prove
That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
While fickle
natures win the deeper love.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration: COMMON LOT]
INDIVIDUALITY.
O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
Just as a weaker woman
loves her own,
Better than I love my beloved art,
Which, till you
came, reigned royally, alone,
My king, my master. Since I saw your
face
I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.

I am as weak as other women are:
Your frown can make the whole
world like a tomb;
Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far.

Sometimes I think there is not space or room
In all the earth for such
a love as mine,
And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.
I know that your desertion or neglect
Could break my heart, as
women's hearts do break.
If my wan days had nothing to expect

From your love's splendor, all joy would forsake
The chambers of my
soul. Yes, this is true.
And yet, and yet--one thing I keep from you.
There is a subtle part of me, which went
Into my long pursued and
worshipped art;
Though your great love fills me with such content

No other love finds room now, in my heart.
Yet that rare essence was
my art's alone.
Thank God, you cannot grasp it; 'tis mine own.
Thank God, I say, for while I love you so,
With