And I walked as if apart
From myself, when I could stand,
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand,
Somewhat coldly, with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a "Poor thing!" negligence.
And I answered coldly too,
When you met me at the door;
And I only heard the dew
Dripping from me to the floor ;
And the flowers I bade you see
Were too withered for the bee,—
As my life, henceforth, for me.
Do not weep so-dear-heart-warm! It was best as it befell!
If I say he did me harm,
I speak wild, I am not well.
All his words were kind and good,—
He esteemed me! Only blood
Runs so faint in womanhood !
Then I always was too grave,
Liked the saddest ballads sung,
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces who die young.
I had died, dear, all the same,-
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.
We are so unlike each other,
Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.
I am pale as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root !
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus underfoot;
I like May-bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou like merry summer-bee!
Fit, that I be plucked for thee.
Yet who plucks me ?—no one mourns;
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns,
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.
Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?
Some one might be waiting for
Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best !—So angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road,
Not to cross the sight of God.
Colder grow my hands and feet,—
When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary be spreać,
That if any friend should come,
(To see thee, sweet!) all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.
And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave,-where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.
On that grave drop not a tear !
Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woolen shroud I wear
I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun,—
Or forget me, smiling on!
Art thou near me? nearer ? so!
Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly as it used to rise,
When I watched the morning gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.
I am death-strong in my soul !
Mystic Dove, alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss!
Jesus, victim, comprehending
Love's divine self-abnegation, Cleanse my love in its self-spending, And absorb the poor libation!
Wind my thread of life up higher,
Up through angels' hands of fire !—
I aspire while I expire !—
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE SLEEPING PALACE.
THE varying year with blade and sheaf
Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains;
Here rests the sap within the leaf;
Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled,
Faint murmurs from the meadows come,
Like hints and echoes of the world
To spirits folded in the womb.
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn;
The fountain to his place returns,
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.
Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs;
In these, in those the life is stayed.
The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily. No sound is made
Not even of a gnat that sings.
More like a picture seemeth all,
Than those old portraits of old kings
That watch the sleepers from the wall.
Here sits the butler with a flask
Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task;
The maid-of-honor blooming fair, The page has caught her hand in his; Her lips are severed as to speak; His own are pouted to a kiss;
The blush is fixed upon her cheek.
Till all the hundred summers pass,
The beams, that through the oriel shine,
Make prisms in every carven glass,
And beaker brimmed with noble wine.
Each baron at the banquet sleeps;
Grave faces gathered in a ring.
His state the king reposing keeps:
He must have been a jolly king.
All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,
And grapes with bunches red as blood;
All creeping plants, a wall of green
Close-matted, burr and brake and briar,
And glimpsing over these, just seen,
High up, the topmost palace-spire.
When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again,
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,
Bring truth that sways the soul of men ?
Here all things in their place remain,
As all were ordered, ages since.
Come Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain,
And bring the fated fairy Prince!
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