Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out of the Future cries,
"On! on!" - but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast.
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more - no more - no more -
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams -
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]
ANNABEL LEE
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]
FOR ANNIE
Thank Heaven! the crisis -
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last -
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length:
But no matter - I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead -
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart - ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness - the nausea -
The pitiless pain -
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain -
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And O! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated - the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst -
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst,
- Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground -
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy,
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed -
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses -
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies -
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies -
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie -
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast -
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm -
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed
(Knowing her love),
That you fancy me dead -
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed
(With her love at my breast),
That you fancy me dead -
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie -
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie -
With the thought, of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]
TELLING THE BEES
Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed, -
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, - the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before, -
The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, -
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away."
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since
In my ears sounds on: -
"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]
A TRYST
I will not break the tryst, my dear,
That we have kept so long,
Though winter and its snows are here,
And I've no heart for song.
You went into the voiceless night;
Your path led far away.
Did you forget me, Heart's Delight,
As night forgets the day?
Sometimes I think that you would speak
If still you held me dear;
But space is vast, and I am weak -
Perchance I do not hear.
Surely, howe'er remote the star
Your wandering feet may tread,
When I shall pass the sundering bar
Our souls must still be wed.
Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]
LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY
Round among the quiet graves,
When the sun was low,
Love went grieving, - Love who saves:
Did the sleepers know?
At his touch the flowers awoke,
At his tender call
Birds into sweet singing broke,
And it did befall
From the blooming, bursting sod
All Love's dead arose,
And went flying up to God
By a way Love knows.
Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]
HEAVEN
Only to find Forever, blest
By thine encircling arm;
Only to lie beyond unrest
In passion's dreamy calm!
Only to meet and never part,
To sleep and never wake, -
Heart unto heart and soul to soul,
Dead for each other's sake.
Martha Gilbert Dickinson [18 -
JANETTE'S HAIR
Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette,
Let me tangle a hand in your hair - my pet;
For the world to me had no daintier sight
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white;
Your beautiful dark brown hair - my pet.
It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette,
It was finer than silk of the floss - my pet;
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist,
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed -
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world - my pet.
My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette,
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown - my pet;
But warmly and softly it loved to caress
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress,
Your beautiful plenty of hair - my pet.
Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette.
Revealing the old, dear story - my pet;
They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly,
And they matched with your golden hair - my pet.
Your lips - but I have no words, Janette -
They were fresh as the twitter of birds - my pet,
When the spring is young, and the roses are wet,
With the dewdrops in each red bosom set,
And they suited your gold brown hair - my pet.
Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette,
'Twas a silken and golden snare - my pet;
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore
The right to continue your slave evermore,
With my fingers enmeshed in your hair - my pet.
Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette,
With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair - my pet,
In the darkness of desolate years I moan,
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone
That covers your golden hair - my pet.
Charles Graham Halpine [1829-1868]
THE DYING LOVER
The grass that is under me now
Will soon be over me, Sweet;
When you walk this way again
I shall not hear your feet.
You may walk this way again,
And shed your tears like dew;
They will be no more to me then
Than mine are now to you!
Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]
"WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME"
When the grass shall cover me,
Head to foot where I am lying;
When not any wind that blows,
Summer blooms nor winter snows,
Shall awake me to your sighing:
Close above me as you pass,
You will say, "How kind she was,"
You will say, "How true she was,"
When the grass grows over me.
When the grass shall cover me,
Holden close to earth's warm bosom, -
While I laugh, or weep, or sing,
Nevermore, for anything,
You will find in blade and blossom,
Sweet small voices, odorous,
Tender pleaders in my cause,
That shall speak me as I was -
When the grass grows over me.
When the grass shall cover me!
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow
Very patient, I can wait,
Knowing that, or soon or late,
There will dawn a clearer morrow:
When your heart will moan "Alas!
Now I know how true she was;
Now I know how dear she was" -
When the grass grows over me!
Ina Donna Coolbrith [1842-1928]
GIVE LOVE TO-DAY
When the lean, gray grasses
Cover me, bury me deep,
No sea wind that passes
Shall break my sleep.
When you come, my lover,
Sorrowful-eyed to me,
Earth mine eyes will cover;
I shall not see.
Though with sad words splendid,
Praising, you call me dear,
It will be all ended;
I shall not hear.
You may live love's riot
Laughingly over my head,
But I shall lie quiet
With the gray dead.
Love, you will not wake me
With all your singing carouse.
Nor your dancing shake me
In my dark house.
Though you should go weeping,
Sorrowful for my sake,
Fain to break my sleeping,
I could not wake.
Now, ere time destroy us -
Shadows beneath and above;
Death has no song joyous,
Nor dead men love -
Now, while deep-eyed, golden,
Love on the mountain sings,
Let him be close holden;
Fetter his wings.
Love, nor joy nor sorrow
Troubles the end of day.
Leave the Fates to-morrow;
Give Love to-day.
Ethel Talbot [18 -
UNTIL DEATH
Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend,
To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end -
Nay, it were rash and wrong.
If thou canst love another, be it so;
I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go -
Love should not be a slave.
My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene
In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns,
Above the jealousies and envies keen,
Which sow this life with thorns.
Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress;
If, after death, my soul should linger here;
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
Love's presence, warm and near.
It would not make me sleep more peacefully
That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me,
Bestow it ere I go.
Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women's graves - a tardy recompense -
But speak them while I live.
Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head
To shut away the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave,
And raindrops filter through.
Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay
Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find
One who will love and serve thee night and day
With a more single mind.
Forget me when I die! The violets
Above my breast will blossom just as blue,
Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets;
But while I live, be true.
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
FLORENCE VANE
I loved thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;
My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;
I renew in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain -
My hopes, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.
The ruin, lone and hoary,
The ruin old,
Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told -
That spot - the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain -
I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.
Thou wast lovelier than the roses
In their prime;
Thy voice excelled the closes
Of sweetest rhyme;
Thy heart was as a river
Without a main.
Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!
But, fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay
Lieth the green sod under -
Alas, the day!
And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain,
To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.
The lilies of the valley
By young graves weep;
The daisies love to dally
Where maidens sleep.
May their bloom, in beauty vying,
Never wane
Where thine earthly part is lying,
Florence Vane!
Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816-1850]
"IF SPIRITS WALK"
If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow
The slant footpath where we were wont to go,
Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray,
Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow.
Look for me not when gusts of winter blow,
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow;
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray,
If spirits walk.
But when, in June, the pines are whispering low,
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so
As some one's fingers once were used to play -
That hour when birds leave song, and children pray,
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know
If spirits walk.
Sophie Jewett [1861-1909]
REQUIESCAT
Tread lightly, she is near,
Under the snow;
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast;
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, peace; she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet;
All my life's buried here -
Heap earth upon it.
Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]
LYRIC
Ah, dans ces mornes sejours
Les jamais sont les toujours. - Paul Verlaine
You would have understood me, had you waited;
I could have loved you, dear! as well as he;
Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated
Always to disagree.
What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:
Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.
Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,
Shall I reproach you dead?
Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover
All the old anger, setting us apart:
Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;
Always, I held your heart.
I have met other women who were tender,
As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.
Think you I turned to them, or made surrender,
I who had found you fair?
Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,
I had fought death for you, better than he:
But from the very first, dear! we, were fated
Always to disagree.
Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses
Love that in life was not to be our part:
On your low-lying mound between the roses,
Sadly I cast my heart.
I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;
Death and the darkness give you unto me;
Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,
Hardly can disagree.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
ROMANCE
My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues and leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!
And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,
They fled like ghosts before the day!
I know not if the forest green
Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!
Andrew Lang [1844-1912]
GOOD-NIGHT
Good-night, dear friend! I say good-night to thee
Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white,
Bridging all space between us, it may be.
Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.
For, lying low upon my couch, and still,
The fever flush evanished from my face,
I heard them whisper softly, "'Tis His will;
Angels will give her happier resting-place!"
And so from sight of tears that fell like rain,
And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low,
I turned my white face to the window-pane,
To say good-night to thee before I go.
Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end,
The conflict with the billows dark and high;
And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend,
I think it would be easier to die;
If I could feel through all the quiet waves
Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill,
I could go downward to the place of graves
With eyes a-shine and pale lips smiling still;
Or it may be that, if through all the strife
And pain of parting I should hear thy call,
I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life,
And know no mystery of death at all.
It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night!
And when you see the violets again,
And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white,
The gentle falling of the April rain,
Remember her whose young life held thy name
With all things holy, in its outward flight,
And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men
To hear again her low good-night! good-night!
Hester A. Benedict [18 -
REQUIESCAT
Bury me deep when I am dead,
Far from the woods where sweet birds sing;
Lap me in sullen stone and lead,
Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring.
Never a flower be near me set,
Nor starry cup nor slender stem,
Anemone nor violet,
Lest my poor dust remember them.
And you - wherever you may fare -
Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew -
Never, ah me, pass never there,
Lest my poor dust should dream of you.
Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]
THE FOUR WINDS
Wind of the North,
Wind of the Norland snows,
Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars -
Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,
And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,
But go not near my love.
Wind of the West,
Wind of the few, far clouds,
Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands -
Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
But let my dear one rest.
Wind of the East,
Wind of the sunrise seas,
Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains -
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,
And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,
And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,
Yet keep thou from my love.
But thou, sweet wind!
Wind of the fragrant South,
Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose! -
Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes
And flowering forests come with dewy wings,
And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss
The low mound where she lies.
Charles Henry Luders [1858-1891]
THE KING'S BALLAD
Good my King, in your garden close,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling)
Why so sad when the maiden rose
Love at your feet is spilling?
Golden the air and honey-sweet,
Sapphire the sky, it is not meet
Sorrowful faces should flowers greet,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling).
All alone walks the King to-day.
(Hark to the thrush's trilling)
Far from his throne he steals away
Loneness and quiet willing.
Roses and tulips and lilies fair
Smile for his pleasure everywhere,
Yet of their joyance he takes no share,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling).
Ladies wait in the palace, Sire,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling)
Red and white for the king's desire,
Love-warm and sweet and thrilling;
Breasts of moonshine and hair of night,
Glances amorous, soft and bright,
Nothing is lacking for your delight,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling).
Kneels the King in a grassy place,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling)
Little flowers under his face
With his warm tears are filling.
Says the King, "Here my heart lies dead
Where my fair love is buried,
Would I were lying here instead!"
(Hark to the thrush's trilling).
Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]
HELIOTROPE
Amid the chapel's chequered gloom
She laughed with Dora and with Flora,
And chattered in the lecture-room, -
That saucy little sophomora!
Yet while, as in her other schools,
She was a privileged transgressor,
She never broke the simple rules
Of one particular professor.
But when he spoke of varied lore,
Paroxytones and modes potential,
She listened with a face that wore
A look half fond, half reverential.
To her, that earnest voice was sweet,
And, though her love had no confessor,
Her girlish heart lay at the feet
Of that particular professor.
And he had learned, among his books
That held the lore of ages olden,
To watch those ever-changing looks,
The wistful eyes, the tresses golden,
That stirred his pulse with passion's pain
And thrilled his soul with soft desire,
And bade fond youth return again,
Crowned with its coronet of fire.
Her sunny smile, her winsome ways,
Were more to him than all his knowledge,
And she preferred his words of praise
To all the honors of the college.
Yet "What am foolish I to him?"
She whispered to her heart's confessor.
"She thinks me old and gray and grim,"
In silence pondered the professor.
Yet once when Christmas bells were rung
Above ten thousand solemn churches,
And swelling anthems grandly sung
Pealed through the dim cathedral arches, -
Ere home returning, filled with hope,
Softly she stole by gate and gable,
And a sweet spray of heliotrope
Left on his littered study-table.
Nor came she more from day to day
Like sunshine through the shadows rifting:
Above her grave, far, far away,
The ever-silent snows were drifting;
And those who mourned her winsome face
Found in its stead a swift successor
And loved another in her place -
All, save the silent old professor.
But, in the tender twilight gray,
Shut from the sight of carping critic,
His lonely thoughts would often stray
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic,
Bidding the ghost of vanished hope
Mock with its past the sad possessor
Of the dead spray of heliotrope
That once she gave the old professor.
Harry Thurston Peck [1856-1914]
"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"
Lydia is gone this many a year,
Yet when the lilacs stir,
In the old gardens far or near,
This house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;
On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,
Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantle laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her;
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbors walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]
AFTER
Oh, the littles that remain!
Scent of mint out in the lane;
Flare of window, sound of bees; -
These, but these.
Three times sitting down to bread;
One time climbing up to bed;
Table-setting o'er and o'er;
Drying herbs for winter's store;
This thing; that thing; - nothing more.
But just now out in the lane,
Oh, the scent of mint was plain!
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]
MEMORIES
Of my ould loves, of their ould ways,
I sit an' think, these bitther days.
(I've kissed - 'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme -
More mouths than one in my mad time!)
Of their soft ways an' words I dream,
But far off now, in faith, they seem.