(She speaks.)
One minute more of life! Enough to snatch
This flower to my bosom, and to catch
The parting glance and signal overhead
From one who sits and waits to see me dead.
One minute more! Enough to let him see
How straight the message fell from him to me,
And how, his talisman upon my breast,
I’ll face the end as calmly as the rest.--
Th’ impassive wall of faces seems to break
And shew one face aquiver for my sake * * *
How different death seems, with a hand that throws
Across the pathway of my doom a rose,
How brief and paltry life, compared to this
O’ertoppling moment of supremest bliss! * * *
Farewell! I feel the lions’ hungry breath,
I meet your eyes * * * beloved, this is death.
_1878._
[Illustration]
Raffaelle to the Fornarina.
(Sitting to him for a Madonna.)
Knot up the filmy strands of golden hair
That veil your breast, yet leave its beauties bare;
In decent ripples backward let it flow,
Smooth-parted sideways from your placid brow.
Unclasp the clinging necklace from your throat,
And let this misty veil about you float,
As round the seraphs of my visions swim
Faint, roseate clouds to make their radiance dim
And bearable to dazzled human eyes,
Uplifted in a rapture of surprise.
Lay off your armlets now, and cover up
With dark blue folds that shoulder’s dimpled slope;
Let naught appear to woo the grosser sense,
But ruling calm, and sacred innocence;
Subdue the pointed twinkle of your eye
Into a level, large serenity,
(Now comes the test) and let your mouth awhile
Be pressed into a faint, ascetic smile,
A pure reflection of the inward thought,
A chastened glow from fires celestial caught.
_1878._
Chriemhild of Burgundy.
A Fragment.
In all the land was not a maid
Could match her beauty white and red;
No decent veil she need to wear,
Deep-mantled in her royal hair,
Dun ripples, shot all through and through
With fiery gold; her eyes were blue
And clearer than a Summer wave
That murmurs in some sunless cave,
And over them her brow shone white,
Like the first low star that pricks the night,
And under them her mouth did redden,
Like ripe red clover, honey-laden;
But white as pear-bloom was her chin,
An elvish dimple played therein;
Her breast stirred softly up and down
Beneath the folding of her gown
As if a bird were prisoned there
That fluttered for the outer air,
And round and comely was each limb,
As doth a royal maid beseem.
_1878._
[Illustration]
Some Woman to Some Man.
We might have loved each other after all,
Have lived and learned together! Yet I doubt it;
You asked, I think, too great a sacrifice,
Or else, perhaps, I rate myself too dear.
Whichever way the difference lies between us,
Would common cares have helped to lessen it,
A common interest, and a common lot?
Who knows indeed? We choose our path, and then
Stand looking back and sighing at our choice,
And say: “Perhaps the other road had led
To fruitful valleys dozing in the sun.”
Perhaps--perhaps--but all things are perhaps,
And either way there lies a doubt, you know.
We’ve but one life to live, and fifty ways
To live it in, and little time to choose
The one in fifty that will suit us best,
And so the end is, that we part, and say:
“We might have loved each other after all!”
_1878._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Lines on Chaucer.
No human pomp suggests his name,
No human pride builds up his fame,
But croft and meadow every where
His presence and his charm declare.
He was an echo of the woods,
A breath of vernal solitudes,
An annalist of brooks and birds,
Interpreter of sylvan words;
He worshipt nature where he trod
And still, through nature, worshipt God;
And spotless as the flower he praises
His name still blossoms with the daisies.
[Illustration]
What We Shall Say Fifty Years Hence, OF OUR FANCY-DRESS QUADRILLE.
(Danced at Swanhurst, August 8th, 1878.)
Do you remember, long ago,
Our Fancy-dress Quadrille?
Though many a year is past since then
It makes me joyous still,
To think what fun we used to have
When we were young and gay
And danced upon the Swanhurst lawn,
That happy Summer day.
As Shepherd and as Shepherdess
We trod the graceful round,
In pinks and blues, with buckled shoes,
And crooks with ribands bound;
And as with joyous step we danced
We gaily sang in time
The foolish words and merry tune
Of some old Nursery rhyme.
But often through the singing broke
A burst of laughter gay,
So young were we, so glad and free,
That happy Summer day!
And hand in hand would linger long,
As through the dance we moved,
For some of us were lovers then,
And some of us were loved.
Ah, many a year is past since then,
And fled the merry throng,
And yet I hear, at times quite clear,
The echo of our song;
And though our days are Wintry now
I well remember still
The happy Summer day we danced
Our Fancy-dress Quadrille!
_1878._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Nothing More.
’Twas the old, old story told again,
The story we all have heard;
A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain--
You know it word for word.
A stolen picture--a faded rose--
An evening hushed and bright;
A whisper--perhaps a kiss--who knows?
A handclasp, and “goodnight.”
The sum of what we call “first love,”
That dreamflower rare and white,
That puts its magic blossom forth
And dies in a single night.
_1878._
[Illustration]
June and December.
When our eyes grow dim and our hair turns grey
And we sit by the fire together,
’Twill seem strange to talk in a shivering way
Of our Summertime’s rosy weather;
When our eyes were bright, and our tresses smooth,
And the blood in our veins leapt red,
In the golden dawn of our long lost youth,
With the promise of life ahead.
Shall we talk with smiles or with sighs that day
Of the years that are dead and gone,
Of the cares and the joys that have passed away
Like dewdrops beneath the sun?
Nay, perchance we’ll see but the sunny side
Of the vision, in looking back,
And the trace of joys that are past may abide,
Where our sorrow have left no track;
And perhaps both the joys and the cares may seem
In the light of that later day,
Like the phantom shapes of some beautiful dream
That has long ago passed away.
But whate’er beside we may lose or hold
From the hoards of the golden past,
May the friends we loved in the days of old
To our hearts and thoughts cling fast,
And before the days come that are coming soon,
And whose motto is “I remember,”
God grant us one vision of love and June
To brighten our life’s December.
_October 7th, 1878._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
October.
A cold grey sea, a cold grey sky
And leafless swaying boughs,
A wind that wanders sadly by,
And moans about the house.
And in my lonely heart a cry
For days that went before;
For joys that fly, and hopes that die,
And the past that comes no more.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A Woman I Know.
For a look from her eyes, for a smile of her mouth
Any man might well give the best years of his youth;
For the touch of her hand, for the warmth of her kiss
Might well barter his chances of infinite bliss;
For her step is like sunlight that plays on the sea
And her bosom is snowy as snowy can be,
And her hair is a mantle inwoven with gold
Such as Queens might have worn in the legends of old;
And her chin oh so white, and her cheek oh so red,
They might well drive a man who should look at them mad;
But beneath the bright breast where her heart ought to be,
What is there? Why a trap to catch fools, sir, like me!
_October, 1878._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Daisies.
Daisies, does he love me?
Daisies, tell me true.
“Loves me * * * does not love me” * * *
That will never do!
Why, you know, you daisies,
Whatever you may say,
He stole that knot of riband
I wore the other day.
Daisies, one more trial;
Let your petals fall.
“Loves me * * * does not love me * * *
Loves me,” after all!
Thank you, darling daisies,
And if it ends that way
I’ll wear you in a garland
Upon my wedding day.
_1878._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Impromptu.
(On being asked for some verses.)
I love the silver dawn of night
That melts the dark away;
The ecstacy of pallid light
That bathes the ended day;
When leaf by leaf the slumbrous trees
Begin to talk anew;
And that sweet almoner, the breeze,
Fills every cup with dew;
When on the fevered brow of toil
Eve lays a soothing palm,
And whispers softly to the soul:
“This hour was made for calm.”
_1876._
[Illustration]
Notre Dame des Fleurs.
To F. S. W.
Rosy, and fair, and fragrant,
Your vassals, the flowers, come,
Bearing a welcome to us
From the heart of your sunlit home;
Delicate garlands, wreathing
With brightness these dreary hours;
Red lips and white lips, breathing
Of you, our Lady of Flowers!
Violets, blue as your eyes are
And roses, as soft as your cheek,--
Daphne, sweet as your words are,--
Primroses pallid and meek;
Feathery, waving fern-plumes,
And blossoms from Summer bowers,
Each one bearing a message
From you, our Lady of Flowers!
Giver of brightness and beauty,
And Queen of this fragrant throng,
How shall we thank you or praise you
But feebly in this poor song?
We, whom you crown with blossoms,
Whom richly your kindness dowers,
We must be silent and love you,--
Love you, our Lady of Flowers!
_November 25, 1878._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Translations from the German.