Poems of Passion | Page 8

woe,
Is sweet compared to that hour when we know
That
some grand passion is on the wane;
When we see that the glory and glow and grace
Which lent a splendor
to night and day
Are surely fading, and showing the gray
And dull
groundwork of the commonplace;
When fond expressions on dull ears fall,
When the hands clasp
calmly without one thrill,
When we cannot muster by force of will

The old emotions that came at call;
When the dream has vanished we fain would keep,
When the heart,
like a watch, runs out of gear,
And all the savor goes out of the year,

Oh, then is the time--if we can--to weep!
But no tears soften this dull, pale woe;
We must sit and face it with
dry, sad eyes.
If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies--
We can
only be passive, and let it go.
ISAURA.
Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play?
"What play?" Why, this old

play of winning hearts!
Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned
way:
'Tis all in vain--I know thee and thine arts.
Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made
A study of thee; and while I
admire
The practised skill with which thy plans are laid,
I can but
wonder if thou 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