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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A MODERN IDYLL, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) Poet's Biography First Line: Crowning the sapphire of our southern sea Last Line: The priceless jewel of undying love. | |||
CROWNING the sapphire of our Southern sea The white cliffs gleam. Above, the dark pines rise From purple heather. The clear autumn sky Bears white winged cloudlets, drifting leisurely Across the azure. A caressing breeze Breathes upon sea and sky, and wakes the deep To rippling laughter. All is calm and peace. Calm the clear evening of untroubled lives, As if no trumpet-blast of woe and pain Might wake their slumbering depths and wreck their peace; And calm the aspect of the smiling sea, As if no tempest ever lashed the surge To thunder in the ocean caves, nor dashed Strong ships to ruin, nor sowed the rocky walls With undistinguished corpses of the dead. Here on a golden August eve of old Two score of years ago, on that calm sea, Churning the slumbering waters into foam, A long black hull, trailing a cloud of smoke, Throbbed swiftly to the West. 'Twas time of war, And this a troopship from the neighbouring port Laden with youthful lives, for whom swift Fate Had come to change the frivolous daily round Of strenuous idleness, the sloth, the rust Of long ignoble peace for the wild joy Of battle, the tame fields of common flowers For the red rose of perilous enterprise Which wounds the hand that grasps it. The great ship Sped with its thousand hopes, its diverse fates Of fame and golden ease, of death and pain, The white thread with the black, the enchanted skein Which weaves the mystic vesture of our lives. There in a high cliff-garden, mute, alone, A young girl sat, her head upon her hand; Her fair hair hid her brow, her cheek was pale. Shyly, she waved her handkerchief, then flushed, Marking an answering signal from the deck, "Farewell, dear heart, farewell." Then the ship passed, But still she watched. At last the western cape Shut out the view, and then she dropped her eyes, Sobbing; and on the unbounded ocean plains And on the high-set downs and misty leas, And painted glories of the autumnal flowers, Smooth laurel and the feathery tamarisk, The swift gloom fell, and left her weeping there. Then when the twilight fell, and a cool breeze Breathed from the sea, shivering, but not with cold, She rose, a tall young figure, lithe and slim, Crowned with the crown of youth, and health and grace And innocence; and to the new-lit house She stole, and softly up the noiseless stair Sped to her maiden chamber; knelt awhile In speechless prayer, then bathing her sad eyes To hide the tell-tale tears, in virgin white, Lit by one blushing rose, descended slow To where the din, confused, of eager talk Burst from the opened door; and, scarce perceived, Passed like a breathing statue, and feigned to smile And seemed to share the polished trivial themes Of books and pictures, plays and politics; And, always smiling, listened; till the talk Turned to the war and its quick coming ills, And, since none knew her secret, all the fears Of trouble, the strong forces of the foe, The dread of coming pestilence, the strength Of the great fortress, all the miseries Of frozen winter on the unsheltered heights -- A hundred presages of ill. At last One, turning to her, marked her ashy face, Pale lips, and closing eyes, as, faint and white, She sank upon her chair. Soon with forced smiles And slow-reviving pulse, she rose and went, Vowing 'twas nothing but the heat, the glare Of the long cloudless day, and, scorning aid, Swept slowly to her room, and there within The locked door swooned, and fell prone on her bed, And lay long time unconscious; then again Revived, but from her mother's soothing hand And kiss and tender words of comfort shrank, Locking her fateful secret in her heart. Sweet Amy Howard, opening like a rose In youth's enchanted air, to the gay town Came forty Mays ago, and there she took, The darling of an old patrician home, Whatever innocent pleasure might await The happy young. The Court's high pageantries Opened swift doors to her. The snowy plumes Crowning the girlish head, the glittering gems, The flowers, the costly robes, the stately trains; Tragedy's cleansing tears: the singer's voice Thrilling the stately throng, the streets aglow With gliding lights, the whirling dances sweet Fainting with dawn, the brief hushed hours of rest, And happy dreams; the ambling cavalcade Through the brisk morn beneath the scented limes; The vernal harvest of the fictive hand On canvas or in stone; the clustering blooms In thronged marquees; the martial melodies, Rising and falling 'mid the courtly crowd On smooth pleached lawns; the flower-hung barges, moored On the cool stream to watch the flashing oars Through sweet June days; the sheen of straining limbs Flashing like lightning by; the rippling flow Of youthful laughter, when the rich and fair Met with each joyous day; -- all these were hers One summer long ago. And then the dream Faded in grosser day, and that clear sky Was veiled with cloud, and on that youthful life There passed the first grey shadow of the Unknown. For that strong primal passion which inspired Man's voice when Time was young -- in the old East, Beneath the desert stars, old Greece, old Rome, As now in populous cities, North and South, In all the countryside, by hill and dale, In this grey teeming London of our love, -- Had swept her chords of life and played on them The old mysterious music, blinding sweet, Which takes young hearts; the melody of Pan Which floods the listening soul, and leaves it deaf Thenceforth to lower tones. This taking her, Silenced the strains of mirth, and turned the girl To woman, though the face and form were young -- A woman knowing care. But he to whom she gave her girlish heart Was worthy of her -- a young soldier bold, Careless and pleasure-loving, yet untouched By grosser sense; the scion of a house High born, yet unennobled as the use Of rural England is, whereon the load Of long-inherited burdens bears so hard, That while the eldest born alone is set In lifelong ease, the rest the happier lot Of Labour takes, and by the sword, the pen, Or ventures of the mart, they gain with toil What the wise law denies them. So it came That this young soldier, knowing well what need Constrained him, to his father's counsels sage, That he should only mate with hoarded gold (Since not as yet he knew the power of love), Consented, and among the joyous throng Fluttered long time a careless butterfly, Yet lighted on no bloom. Till one blest night Of summer, 'mid the flower-decked dance, he saw, Herself the fairest flower, a girlish form, Lithe, clad in virgin white, with eyes of blue, Sweep by him, and their glances met, and then No longer might his careless fancy roam To others, nor the maiden keep her troth Unplighted more, so strong an influence Bound each to each, its name, Requited Love. So through the flying summer days and nights They met and grew together, till their souls, Fused in one common essence, lived no more Their separate lives; with vows unuttered yet, Deep graven on their hearts, but since the lack Of riches vexed them, never by the lips A word of love was spoken, yet no less Their troth was plighted by a thousand signs And hidden bonds. Amid the careless crowd Careless they moved, nor might the Argus eyes Of women trace their secret, yet they knew Themselves fast bound, though seeming to be free. Then one day on those happy fateful days, Careless no longer, rose a sudden storm Out of the distant East, the trump of war Breaking the age-long peace. A thousand homes In happy rural England heard the sound, And shivered for the dear ones of their love -- Sons, brothers, lovers. All the light-some thoughts Of the old joyous life vanished and gone; Fled were the careless hours, the music mute, The feasts, the dances done. But ere it came The soldier's ardent heart broke forth in words Which spoke his love. What answer could she make, Who knew it long ago? Her heart was his, And had been from the first. So these young lives Were plighted each to each, and 'mid the chill Of parting and impending trouble glowed With that fine inner light which doth illume Those happier souls which 'mid life's gathered clouds Find their long missing and divided selves And grow complete. What was to them the gloom Of swift descending night which hid the East, The crash of nations, hurled together and wrecked In deadly fight? Amid the storm, the frown Of that embattled sky, one little ray, One little golden glory of the heavens, The secret knowledge of their mutual love, Crowned them with halcyon calm, like that which lies Deep in the heart of the vexed hurricane. So the swift days fled on. Dark and more dark The storm-cloud lowered; louder and yet more loud The thunder roll of war. At last it came, The voice of Fate, and he who heard with joy The order that he longed for, which should bring The chance of Fame and, higher, dearer far, The voice of Duty, calling him to spend His life for England, took a bold resolve And told his dear. He dared not face as yet His father's baffled hopes, which looked for gold To build the shattered fortunes of his house, Nor leave his love unplighted, for whose hand A score of suitors pleaded. So at last He prayed his love, if only ere they went, They should be wed in secret. Long the maid Doubted, for though she lived her life alone, She would not wed another, and her heart Abhorred concealment. Last, in trustfulness And pure, ungrudging love, she put aside Her maiden fears, and then one morn they stole To some near church, and there, with none of kin As witness of the rite, half blind with tears, Yet all in love, she heard the priest pronounce The solemn words which bound their lives in one; And at the porch, parting with one long kiss, They went their ways, and all was as before To outward eyes, though a deep sense of change Had passed upon their lives, transmuting all -- The young man, graver from his doubled life; The wedded maid, a bride, but not a wife. Nor met they more. She to her father's house Went by the Southern sea; he presently Whither his duty called him, till that eve When his stout ship passed to the West, and left, On that high cliff, his maiden wife alone. II. The swift days fled, the earlier autumn waned To later, when the harvest fields grew bare And the year past its prime. On that young heart Fell an autumnal sadness, brooding deep Upon her day and night. Her cheek grew pale, While, shrinking from the careless joys which once Allured, in silent musings she would spend Her recluse days. Only her mother's voice She loved, and she who marked her day by day Fading, grew anxious for her, questioning What thing had been, if haply she might find Some solace for her pain. But not a word Her shy soul dared to speak; for day by day She scanned the journals, but no news would come Save vague reports alone. At last they told How, sudden from the City of the Turk, The great Armada sailed, and then the news How, after forty years of peace, once more Climbing the volleying hillsides from the vines, Our England's columns charged the guns and drove The enemy in flight. Her heart stood still, Reading the fateful list of those who fell Wounded or slain. But the reviving hope, The vivid glow of undefeated youth Flushed her pale cheek; for not 'mid these sad lists Found she the one dear name, but ranged with theirs Whom for sheer daring with the coveted Cross The General rewarded. He had borne The colours up the hill, braving the fire Of half a hundred guns, when others fell, 'Scaping without a wound. 'Twas he whose hand Shot the tall Russian dead, whose lifted sword Had cut the Ensign down. 'Twas he who nursed The wounded lad to life. Then her fond heart, A little chilled by bloodshed, flushed with pride For him who was her husband, and that night The old fire lit her cheek, her eyes, and gave New spirit to her voice, till as of yore She seemed again the bright and joyous girl Who in high summer, scarce three months ago, Lit the old home with innocent mirth and song Uncaring, and her mother's heart was glad. But when the days grew short, and the spent year Was dying fast, came news of dull delays And how the tide of war, leaving the plains And hard-won heights, broke in a surge of blood Round the beleaguered fortress. Then, when now The thick fogs hid the sea and blurred the land In dull November, came the fateful tale Of furious storms, driving to wreck the ships Laden with food and shelter, stubborn fight Fought through the mist, each man for his own hand, "The soldiers' battle," and her heart stood still, Fearing the voice of Fate. But though once more, Amid the dreadful sum of blood and death, Came news that he was safe, the gathering sum Of daily growing miseries, want and cold, Disease and hunger, vexed her, till the girl Could bear no more suspense, nor anxious care, Nor longer sit in idle luxury, While he perhaps lay dying, calling for her To soothe his pain. This thought, recurring still, Tormented her long time; till at the last, When every journal told its harrowing tale Of suffering, she took a stern resolve: She bared to those she loved her secret grief, And prayed consent to go where she might gain To tend her husband. Not her father's voice Of prudent counsel, nor her mother's love, Nor any maiden dread of war and pain Or danger moved her. When they bade her dream No longer of her madness, she locked fast Her purpose in her breast. And one sad morn, Before the loitering dawn she stole away, Leaving with tears her childhood's cherished home, The parents of her love, her girlish friends, White bed and dainty room, her books, her flowers -- All things that made life sweet; passed to the town, Taking her little store of gems and gold, And setting on her pillow a brief note: "Forgive me, mother. Duty bids me go. My place is with my husband. He has need Of tender care, and I will seek him out If he still lives. Fear not for me; I go Hoping to join the noble new-formed band Of ministering women. If my skill Is wanting now, yet I may gain in time To help him or his comrades, whom sad Fate Condemns to pain. Fear not, 'tis better so; I should go mad to sit at home and think That we should meet no more. But now I know, So sure a presage occupies my mind, That he shall owe to me returning life And health; no more I know, nor seek to know, But so I gain to save him, all is well." So ere the wintry day began to close In dreary twilight, to the gloomy town -- Not the gay town of summer past and gone, But dark with choking mists -- she passed, and there Besought the gracious women who went forth To that new work of mercy, strange to them, Familiar now, if only she might share Their blessed task, and with the strength of love Grown eloquent, prevailed, and to the ship Which soon should sail betook her. Not the tears Of those she loved, who came in haste and strove To bend her purpose, moved her. So at last, Down the rude wintry channel, tossed the ship, Passing the pines, the heather, withered now; Passing the well-known cliffs, the towers of home And that high garden where, three brief months since, She sat a girl pining in luxury, And watched the strong ship fading in the West That bore her life away. The strong god Love Had nerved the girlish heart and braced her soul To high resolve, so that the wintry wave, The weary days of storm and stress and gloom, The strangers' faces round, affrighted not. Till, passing through the lion-guarded gates Into the Middle Sea, and by the blue Sicilian straits, and many a classic shore And fairy islet of the purple deep, She felt her heart beat faster as she saw, Crowning the Golden Horn the minarets Of Stamboul, knowing well her love had passed The self-same way before, and wondering much If there he lay wounded in some fierce fight Longing for her, or if indeed he lived Unwounded still, or mouldering, perchance, Upon the frozen, bleak Crimean plain, Dead of disease or cold or suffering, dead In battle slain, a bullet through his heart. Now when the ship cast anchor, and gave forth, Thronging the narrow, ill-paved city streets, That band of pitiful women, her first thought Was of her love; and when they gained at last The palace where the sick and wounded pined, Brought from the front by sea, shyly she asked If he were with the rest. But when she learned He had no hurt indeed, but on the field Was marked for higher rank, with thankful heart She wrote to tell him what had been, and prayed Forgiveness, and, if haply it might be, That she might come to him, or if indeed That might not be, she in the hospital Would live content, amid the duteous throng Of English nurses; only this she prayed That he would send one little word of love, And she would ask no more, only to hear That he was well. But when her husband knew All that had been, and that his maiden bride, That careless, delicate child, so lately won, Toiled uncompanioned 'mid the thousand woes Of ruthless war, his heart, so light before, Grew heavy in him, knowing not what fate Might yet befall. Yet since he loved her well. A passionate longing filled the young man's heart To embrace his dear, and be with her and smooth The hardships which she faced for him -- ay, though Through sickness and through wounds; and so he wrote A letter in his tent, when the day's tale Of labour and of danger now was done; A letter full of love: how he was well, Unwounded, happy; yet would give his health And scatheless limbs, if only he might feel, Paying the price of sickness or of wounds, The touch of her soft hand, and see her stoop To kiss him as he lay. But as he closed The letter, through the night above, the shrill Scream of a hurtling shell, then a loud crash. Nor knew he more, and the new-written page Fell from his hand, torn, crushed, and blurred with blood. III. Then for that yearning, unrewarded heart There came the weary days of endless toil; The unaccustomed cares, the sleepless nights, Of scarce-snatched slumbers ending ere the dawn; The sordid offices; the delicate hands, Dressing the festering wounds; the cries and groans Worse than the battle's, the coarse sights which shocked The maiden's innocent eyes, the maniac shouts Of some poor fevered brain, the blasphemies Of desperate sufferers, the surgeon's knife, The blood, the shrieks of pain, till came at last Deep stillness, and the tortured figure lay Shrouded with folded hands, until they came Quickly and bore him forth, and on his bed Was laid another. All her tender heart Bled for the unsuspected miseries Of human life; her innocent eyes o'er-flowed For daily, nightly woes, yet not the less She bore to give what aid of soothing hand And kindly word her girlish want of skill Might lend the wounded. Were they not like him, Soldiers with none to tend them, love or wife? How could she better show the love she bore To him who was her life than tending those Who were his comrades? So she steeled her heart To sights and sounds of misery, put aside Her maidenly disgust, and toiled to assuage The hopeless sum of woe. One fair-haired lad In helpless pain, and wandering in dreams, Muttered the name she loved, and when he woke Was tireless in his praise. Thenceforth she seemed To have a friend again, and eager heard How brave he was and tender; how he bore The stripling out of fire, and came for him When the fierce fight was done; and how the foe Was stubborn, and the struggle hard, and since The wounded might not bear the bitter cold Of those unsheltered heights, the transports brought Their load of helpless suffering week by week To those warm palace halls. She hearing all, Seemed to grow nearer to her love, and share His daily fortunes; and she tended well The grateful youth with daily, nightly care, Wrote shyly to his mother and his love, And learnt how thin the fence which rank and gold Set between man and man, and how the bond That binds the highborn, binds the lowly too In precious kinship. But no answering word Came from her dear, and heavier every day The load of anxious doubt, unexorcised, Pressed on her, as her cheek grew pale, and all The weight of hopeless service bore on her Too heavy for her strength. The menial tasks, Light while Hope gilded Duty, seemed to grow Heavier with every day that failed to bring News of her love; but she toiled bravely on Amid those dreadful sights and sounds, nor sought To shrink from them. But when the great ships passed Beneath the windows with their piteous freight Of wounded, who a few brief months before Sailed full of life and hope, her anxious mind, Not knowing what to hope, whether 'twere best He came with them, that she might nurse him back To life and health, or else, unhurt, alone (If haply still he breathed this earthly air), And far removed from her, should wait the fall Of the great fortress and the crowning fight, When Death should claim his thousands. But no news Came, nor amid those close thronged halls of pain, Perplexed 'twixt joy and grief, she saw his face. Then one day when her soul was sick with fear, A letter from the Camp! writ by a hand She knew not. As she opened it there fell From the enclosing page a fragment, torn And stained with blood, in that familiar hand She loved so well. Her heart stood still to mark Those crimson stains, and yet it seemed to say That all was well with him, her love, her dear, Her husband. Every stained and blotted word, With Love's swift divination, she devoured, Yet could not understand. At last she turned To his who sent those dear, torn, blotted lines, And learnt the truth. "He found his comrade lie Bleeding upon the ground, and by him lay Amid the ruins of their shattered home The fragments that he sent. 'Twas weeks ago, And he had hovered long 'twixt life and death, Tended by comrades, and too weak till then To join the rest who left those frozen fields For the warm city. But now his many wounds, Which were not deep, nor maiming face or limb, Were mending slowly, and he hoped to sail When next the mournful harvest of the war Left the bleak snow-clad heights." She, reading this, Dissolved in love and grateful that her dear Was spared to her, felt a new spring of life Course through her. Then she told the youth she nursed, Within whose youthful veins Life's refluent tide Glowed once again; and on the crowded quay As the ship glided in they stood, and there She, in her sombre habit like a nun, Found him she sought; and he with a wan smile And feeble grasp greeted her, and they kissed, And then his tired eyes closed. But oh, how weak He seemed, how ashy grey his cheek, how thin The accents of his voice, which were so deep And manly! As she looked, the rising tears Blotted her sight -- tears half of happiness And half of pity. To the hospital They passed, and she, fired with a newborn hope, Spent happy days and nights beside his bed, Drawing him back to life, and when at last The ebbing tide returned, and he grew strong And stronger day by day, there was no soul In all those crowded halls so blithe as hers Who was his wife. Then one day when her cares Were well nigh ended, from the house of pain They went together to a pleasant home By the Sweet Waters. Flowers of early spring Lit the dry, rustling woods where autumn leaves Lay scattered thickly still, and through the boughs Blue river-reaches, flecked with glancing sails, Smiled on them. There they gained in the new joy Of bursting life to lose the sordid stains Of pain and woe. Each sunny day that passed Brought its own store of strength for him who late Lay bleeding, and he blest the loving care Of his dear nurse. Amid that vernal air She tended him, and a sweet time of peace And tender love dawned for those sore-tried lives -- A little time, too brief! For as his strength Grew greater, and no more the solidier lay Prostrate upon his bed, but once again With slow-paced footsteps, leaning on her arm, Wandered along the banks of the blue stream -- Two wedded lovers, weaving fairy tales Of what the years should bring -- his loving eyes Woke suddenly one day, and marked how frail His girl-wife showed, how thin the pallid cheek, How deep the hectic rose, how bright the eyes, And with a bitter pang his conscious mind Knew what should be. For every day that passed Weak and more weak, despite her happiness And recompense of love, she showed, and soon, When now he walked again in nascent strength, No longer on her arm he leant for aid, But she on his, and presently he went Alone, while she, reclining, in the sun Hoarding her fast-decreasing sum of strength, Lay still as death, greeting him with a smile. So the swift weeks passed onwards equably, Brief happy weeks, the one reprieved from death, The other doomed to die. The air grew soft With fuller Spring. Again the trees grew green, The bursting woods, the fields a maze of flowers; Soft breezes fanned the stream, and the pale cheek Of her whose young life toils and cares and fears And sleepless vigils 'mid polluted air Had sapped; for whom her happiness had come Too late to save, only in time to make The end more bitter. Ere the swift Spring passed To summer, the hidden fever in her blood, Which long had smouldered, broke in open flame And burned that fragile house of life, and left But half-cold ashes, till the appointed hour, After brief days of suffering, when her Love, Requiting well her tender care, and strong In body though weak in heart, heard her lips say: "Dear, it is hard to part. But I have been Happier to find the rugged thorny path Of Duty hidden in flowers, than when I knew The old smooth ways of ease. Lay me at rest Here among English graves in this blest place Where I have learnt to live. Ask for my fault Forgiveness of my mother and my sire, Whom I have disobeyed, and bid them think Tenderly of their daughter. When the war Is ended, and you pass again the cliffs Of England, and the garden 'midst the pines Where once -- was it years since, or yesterday? -- I watched you go, taking my heart, my youth, My life with you, say a brief prayer for me, Your maiden-wife. Then if you will, forget; Or if you will, remember." Then she breathed Her last within his arms, and he with tears, And one last kiss of parting, closed her eyes. They laid her in the place she would, amidst The Christian dead. Upon the hills the tall Black cypress-spires mark where the maiden lies, And from the minarets the Muezzin calls To prayer, where yet the resonant peals shall sound For Christian worship, when the accursed hordes Of lust and murder which to-day defile The garden of the earth are driven in shame Back to their native wastes. A thousand names Of English dead, each in its scanty plot Of alien earth, lie round her, where she waits, Poor faithful child, the peal that calls to life! IV. But when the last sad offices were done The soldier sought to lay the ghost of grief Through Duty. To the Camp once more he bent His willing feet. The comrades whom he left And Fortune spared, welcomed the grave sad man, Who from his new and secret sorrow turned To the old task, and careless, facing Death, Bore a charmed life. Day after day he fought Amid the van, unscathed, nor seemed to heed Whatever Fate might send, and with him went, Following in every perilous enterprise, The fair-haired lad whom from that earlier fight He bore to safety, and his girl-wife nursed, Dying herself, to life. Then by degrees The perils of each day, the abounding life, The glow, the glory of successful war Worked their sure work. Slowly he put from him The load of blank regret, and seemed again -- A little graver than of old maybe -- A soldier as before. His comrades' voice Acclaimed his selfless daring, yet he seemed More pitiful than before. His hand would spare The weakling; oft in act to shoot or strike He dropped his arm, his Love's imploring eyes Seeming to turn on him, fulfilled his soul With ruth and pity. Slow the weary war Dragged to its end; closer and closer crept The encircling lines; a scorpion ringed with fire The Fortress stung. Then came the fierce assault When thousands fell, but he was scatheless still Even as at first. And last the fateful morn When amid thundering shocks, fort after fort By its defenders' suicidal hands Leapt to the skies, and, amid smoke and flame, The strong fleet, trapped within the harbour, sank Or flared in ruin, and the Power of Ill, Which throws to-day its shield above the Turk, Stepped between him and righteous doom; and she, Our blindfold England, fought and did prevail For a mistaken end, where victory Was deadlier than defeat. In those dark days, Yet glorious too, that strenuous stricken soul, Unquestioning, did well his soldier's work, And when Peace came, though all but duty seemed Lost in that early grave, was crowned with rank And honour and fame, a leader among men. But when they left those blood-stained heights and set Their faces homewards, one brief week he gained To tarry with his love. The turf was green Already on her grave, and summer flowers Lighted it. There he set a marble cross Above her, with her name, and the scant sum Of her brief earthly years. Even as he gazed The Past came back to him, the sad, sweet Past, A little dimmed already by long months Of daily fateful war. And then he went, Wearing one pure white rose upon his breast, Plucked from her resting-place, to join the throng Of comrades homeward-bound. The great ship passed From sea to sea, leaving the windless South With its deep purples, for the long grey roll Of the Atlantic surge; green orange groves And vine-hung slopes, for heather and thymy downs In England. Last, one day his watching eyes Knew once again the well-remembered cliff Crowned with dark pines, and on its seaward edge A garden bright with flowers; and all the past Blossomed anew within him as he saw, Unchanged, the high-built turrets of her home, Who filled his heart. Almost his straining eyes Seemed once again to mark a white-robed form Wave her farewell. But ah! her long farewell Was months ago, and they had parted since Who now should meet no more! And then his thought Turned to his plighted word. He did not kneel, But, standing, breathed a silent thanksgiving, That loving her, he had been loved again, And, as she asked of him, such prayer as comes For those we love and lose -- a wordless hope That it is well with them where'er the Unknown Holds them within His boundless waste of worlds, And when this pilgrimage of life is done That those who loved on earth may love in heaven. And then the salutary toil which brings An antidote to grief, the daily growth Of Life's broad tree, driving its roots deep down In homely earth, lifting its crest to heaven, With fruit and blossom crowned -- no fragile flower, But with a thousand thick-leaved branches strong For rest or shelter -- o'er that sore-tried soul Spread its protecting shade; and honour of men And tranquil wedded years, and childish hands, And once again, hard-fought, successful war In the far East, and waning years absorbed In homely leisure, 'mid the cherished fields Of long-fled youth; -- obscured that precious dream And half-remembered grave, and that young life Given for his own. But in the wakeful night Before the dawn, or when his children sit Around his board, or in the joyous dance At Yuletide, when another Amy whirls, White-robed like her of yore, and smiles on him, Her grandsire, -- to the old man's dreaming thought Scenes which those young lives knew not rise again Before his yearning eyes: -- that dear, dead Past, That girlish form waving a fond farewell, That tender, loving care, that early grave, Fill once again his eyes, thin as a dream, Not all unhappy; and the Present wanes, Lost in the glamour of the vanished Past. Thin as a dream! But what is all our life But dreamlike -- nay, a dream? And yet 'tis well To have dreamt it. One day, waking with the Dawn In some strange sphere, where Time nor Change disturbs, Nor dust nor noise of Life, but still and bright, The vanished Beauty of the Past revives; The long-drowned silent Music wakes again In that ethereal calm; our souls shall take, Clear as of old, the pageant of their lives On the old earth; unfading memories Of joy and pain, sorrow and sacrifice, Precious and unforgotten; all the store Of shining thoughts and deeds, pure gems undimmed Of the old treasure-house, and best of all To deck the enfranchised Soul to meet her King, The priceless jewel of undying Love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHRISTMAS CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A CYNICS DAY-DREAM by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A FRAGMENT by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A GEORGIAN ROMANCE; A.D. 1900 by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A GREAT GULPH by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A HEATHEN HYMN by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A HYMN IN TIME OF IDOLS by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A LAST WILL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A MEMORY by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) A MIDSUMMER NIGHT by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) |
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