I wonder why my love for him
Should grow so much these last three days,
While he but stares as if some whim
Had been discovered to his gaze;
Some foolish whim that brings but shame
Whatever time he thinks thereof,--
To him my name is now the name
Of some old half-forgotten love.
And yet I starve for his least kiss
And faint because my love is great;
I, who am now no more than this,--
An unseen beggar at his gate....
_She watched the moon and spake aloud._
_The moon seemed not to rise, but hung_
_Just underneath the long straight cloud_
_That low across the heavens swung,_
_As if to press the old moon back_
_Into its place behind the trees._
_The trees stood where the hill was black;_
_They were not vexed by any breeze._
_The moon was not as it had been_
_Before, when she had watched it rise;_
_It was misshapen now, and thin,_
_As if some trouble in the skies_
_Had happened more than it could bear,_
_Its color, too, was no more red;_
_Nor was it like her yellow hair;--_
_It looked as if its soul were dead._
I, who was once well-loved of him,
Am as a beggar by his gate
Whereon black carved things look grim
At one who thinks to penetrate.
I do not ask if I may stray
Once more in those desired lands;
Another night, yet one more day,
For these I do not make demands;
For when the ripened hour is past
Things such as these are asked in vain:
His first day's love,--were that the last
I were repaid for this new pain.
Out of his love great joy I had
For many days; and even now
I do not dare to be but glad
When I remember, often, how
He said he had great joy of me.
The while he loved, no man, I think,
Exceeded him in constancy;
My passion, even, seemed to shrink
Almost to nothing, when he came
And told me all of love's strange things:
The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,
Its silent hours, its rapid wings....
_The moon still waited, watching her_
_(The cloud still stretched there, close above;_
_The trees beneath); it could not stir,_
_And yet it seemed the shape thereof,_
_Since she looked first, some change had known._
_In places it had burned away,_
_And one side had much thinner grown;_
_--What light that came from it was gray._
_It was not curved from east to west._
_But lay upon its back; like one_
_Wounded, or weary of some quest,_
_Or by strong enemies undone._
_Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;_
_She knew they were burned out and dead_
_Because no clouds went, drifting by,_
_Across the light the strange moon shed._
Now, I can hope for naught but death.
I would not stay to give him pain,
Or say the words a woman saith
When love hath called aloud in vain
And got no answer anywhere.
It were far better I should die,
And have rough strangers come to bear
My body far away, where I
Shall know the quiet of the tomb;
That they should leave me, with no tears,
To think and think within the gloom
For many years, for many years.
The thought of that strange, narrow place
Is hard for me to bear, indeed;
I do not fear cold Death's embrace,
And where black worms draw nigh to feed
On my white body, then, I know
That I shall make no mournful cry:
But that I should be hidden so
Where I no more may see the sky,--
The wide sky filled with many a star,
Or all around the yellow sun,
Or even the sky where great clouds are
That wait until the rain be done,
--That is an evil thing for me....
_Across the sky the cloud swung still_
_And pressed the moon down heavily_
_Where leafless trees grew on the hill._
_The pale moon now was very thin._
_There was no water near the place,_
_Else would the moon that slept therein_
_Have frightened her with its gray face._
How shall I wish to see the sky!
For that alone mine eyes shall weep;
I care not where they make me lie,
Nor if my grave be digged deep,
So they leave loose my coffin's lid
And throw on me no mouldy clay,
That the white stars may not be hid:
This little thing is all I pray.
Then I shall move me wearily,
And clasp each bone that was my wrist,
Around each slender bony knee;
And wind my hair, that once he kissed,
Around my body wasted thin,
To keep me from the grave's cold breath;
And on my knees rest my poor chin,
And think of what I lose by death.
I shall be happy, being dead....
_The moon, by now, had nearly gone,_
_As if it knew its time was sped_
_And feared the coming of the dawn._
_It had not risen; one could see_
_The cloud was strong to keep it back;_
_It merely faded utterly,_
_And where it was the sky grew black._
_Till suddenly the east turned gray,_
_Although no stars were overhead;_
_And though the moon had died away,_
_There came faint glimmerings of red;_
_Then larger waves of golden light_
_Heralded that the day was born,_
_And on the furthest eastern height_
_With swift feet came the waited morn._
_With swift feet came the morn, but lo!_
_Just as its triumph was begun,_
_The first wild onset of the snow_
_Strangled the glad imperial sun!_