Renascence and Other Poems | Page 9

to-night, that till he came?Could not, could not wait,?In a gown as bright as flame?Held for them the gate.)
Death, I say, my heart is bowed?Unto thine, -- O mother!?This red gown will make a shroud?Good as any other!
The Dream
Love, if I weep it will not matter,?And if you laugh I shall not care;?Foolish am I to think about it,?But it is good to feel you there.
Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking, --?White and awful the moonlight reached?Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,?There was a shutter loose, -- it screeched!
Swung in the wind, -- and no wind blowing! --?I was afraid, and turned to you,?Put out my hand to you for comfort, --?And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew,
Under my hand the moonlight lay!?Love, if you laugh I shall not care,?But if I weep it will not matter, --?Ah, it is good to feel you there!
Indifference
I said, -- for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come, -- "I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in bed; But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some?As would let him in -- and take him in with tears!" I said. I lay, -- for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn, -- I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; And he found me at my window with my big cloak on,?All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!
Witch-Wife
She is neither pink nor pale,?And she never will be all mine;?She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,?And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;?In the sun 'tis a woe to me!?And her voice is a string of colored beads,?Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,?And her ways to my ways resign;?But she was not made for any man,?And she never will be all mine.
Blight
Hard seeds of hate I planted?That should by now be grown, --?Rough stalks, and from thick stamens?A poisonous pollen blown,?And odors rank, unbreathable,?From dark corollas thrown!
At dawn from my damp garden?I shook the chilly dew;?The thin boughs locked behind me?That sprang to let me through;?The blossoms slept, -- I sought a place?Where nothing lovely grew.
And there, when day was breaking,?I knelt and looked around:?The light was near, the silence?Was palpitant with sound;?I drew my hate from out my breast?And thrust it in the ground.
Oh, ye so fiercely tended,?Ye little seeds of hate!?I bent above your growing?Early and noon and late,?Yet are ye drooped and pitiful, --?I cannot rear ye straight!
The sun seeks out my garden,?No nook is left in shade,?No mist nor mold nor mildew?Endures on any blade,?Sweet rain slants under every bough:?Ye falter, and ye fade.
When the Year Grows Old
I cannot but remember?When the year grows old --?October -- November --?How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows?Go down across the sky,?And turn from the window?With a little sharp sigh.
And often when the brown leaves?Were brittle on the ground,?And the wind in the chimney?Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her?That I wish I could forget --?The look of a scared thing?Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall?The soft spitting snow!?And beautiful the bare boughs?Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire,?And the warmth of fur,?And the boiling of the kettle?Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember?When the year grows old --?October -- November --?How she disliked the cold!
Sonnets
I
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs, -- no,?Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair?Than small white single poppies, -- I can bear?Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though?From left to right, not knowing where to go,?I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there?Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear?So has it been with mist, -- with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught?Of delicate poison adds him one drop more?Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,?Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed?Each hour more deeply than the hour before,?I drink -- and live -- what has destroyed some men.
II
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied?Who told me time would ease me of my pain!?I miss him in the weeping of the rain;?I want him at the shrinking of the tide;?The old snows melt from every mountain-side,?And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;?But last year's bitter loving must remain?Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear?To go, -- so with his memory they brim!?And entering with relief some quiet place?Where never fell his foot or shone his face?I say, "There is no memory of him here!"?And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
III
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,?And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,?And dusty roads, and