Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE, by                    
First Line: Poor faded flower, / thy pale dead form hath caused the tears to start
Last Line: For this poor withered thing!
Subject(s): Love - Loss Of; Past


Poor faded flower,
Thy pale dead form hath caused the tears to start
And stirred the waters of my lonely heart
With strange angelic power.

Long years ago
Ere life's glad sunshine languished into shade,
Thou wast the fragrant offering of a maid
Fair as the world can show.

Let me call up
The Past's dim ghost by memory's potent spell:
One pearl at least is left, for which 'tis well
To drain grief's bitter cup!

'Twas summer eve,
And she and I, fair maiden and fond boy,
Together wandered full of such deep joy
As age can ne'er retrieve.

The cherished scene
Gleams through a mist of tears and memory sees
The velvet turf, the patriarchal trees,
The woodland cool and green.

A silver lake
Before us slumbered; herds of timid deer
With horns thrown back, came trooping to the mere
From many a leafy brake:

With large bright eyes
And ears erect, they marked our coming feet,
One moment paused, then vanished in retreat
Swift as a falcon flies.

A fairy boat
Rocked on the ripples, captive to a bough;
I loosed its chain and oared the shallop's prow
Through lily-leaves afloat.

Eve's golden rays
Streamed o'er our path; my sweet companion steered
Straight for a greenly-wooded isle that peered
Dimly through crimson haze.

We did not speak:
When bliss is infinite, what need of speech?
Our keel soon grated on the pebbly beach
That fringed a sheltered creek.

So strayed we on,
Through shadowy aisles of close-embracing trees
Whose restless foliage murmured like the seas,
A slumberous monotone.

Green twinkling leaves
Lit by slant sunbeams tremulously made
Quaint shifting arabesques of light and shade
Such as nought earthly weaves.

The Zephyr's sigh
And hum of insect-swarms alone were heard,
Save when some squirrel leapt, or nestling bird
Sang vespers from on high.

With silent joy
We stood and gazed and listened. There was nought
To mar the spell by one intrusive thought
That might our dreams annoy.

Each sense seemed drowned
In waves of happiness; I turned to tell
My soul's deep bliss to her Who knew it well—
Her looks perused the ground:

There, flowering wild
'Mid emerald leaves and buds with ruby tips,
Crimson and dewy as her own sweet lips,
A fragrant blossom smiled.

With loving heed
I stooped to pluck it from its verdant nook,
When she, with playfully capricious look,
Stooped and forestalled the deed;

Then, arch coquette,
She flashed upon me her bewildering eyes
In saucy triumph and displayed the prize,
And then—our fingers met:

Her soft white hand
Sent a keen shiver through my tingling frame—
Each vein seemed glowing with a subtle flame
That each pulsation fanned.

I took the flower,
I caught her hand and clasped it in my own
And murmured vows in fond impassioned tone,
Accordant with the hour.

She did not check
The heaving tides of passion's fiery flood,
But the quick current of her tell-tale blood.
Rushed over face and neck:

The faint pink flush
Of dainty sea-shell, or deep-bosomed rose,
Rich sunset hues asleep on virgin snows
Scarce typify her blush.

And then she sighed;
The small white teeth within her lips apart
Gleamed like the rain-drops that some bud's red heart
Caressing, half doth hide.

She did not move,
Her eyes half closed in languor's dim eclipse—
I pressed upon the blossom of her lips
The first sweet kiss of love.

Ah! me! Ah! me!
Our fondest joys endure but for a day,
While pains make nest-homes of our hearts and stay
And so 'twill ever be.

That maid is gone!
She, whose rare nature formed my soul's delight,
Long since to kindred angels took her flight
And I am left alone!

But there is balm
Still for my woe; the memory of her smiles
Back to youth's morning-land my heart beguiles
And brings elysian calm,

And thus I vow,
Though colour, beauty, fragrance, all are fled
From the pale flower that lies before me dead,
I hold it sacred now:

And I would fling
The queenliest blooms aside that scent the breeze
In odorous isles of blue Pacific seas,
For this poor withered thing!





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