But the sound grew into word
As the speakers drew more nearSweet, forgive me that I heard
What you wished me not to hear. Do not weep so-do not shakeOh-I heard thee, Bertha, make Good true answers for my sake. Yes, and HE too! let him stand
In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand
He had claimed with hasty claim?
That was wrong perhaps-but then
Such things be—and will, again.
Women cannot judge for men.
Had he seen thee, when he swore
He would love but me alone?
Thou wert absent -sent before
To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee who art best
Past compare, and loveliest,
He but judged thee as the rest.
Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, Dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds,
Flying straightway to the light:
Mine are older.-Hush!-look out-
Up the street! Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!
And that hour-beneath the beech,
When I listened in a dream,
And he said in his deep speech,
That he owed me all esteem-
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.
I fell flooded with a Dark,
In the silence of a swoon.
When I rose, still cold and stark,
There was night-I saw the moon.
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seemed to wonder what I was.
And I walked as if apart
From myself, when I could stand-
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand,
Somewhat coldly-with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a "Poor thing" negligence.
And I answered coldly too
When you met me at the door;
And I only heard the dew
Dripping from thee to the floor.
And the flowers I bade you see,
Were too withered for the bee,
As my life, henceforth, for me.
Do not weep so-Dear-heart-warm!
All was best as it befell,
If I say he did me harm,
I speak wild-I am not well.
All his words were kind and good-
He esteemed me! Only, blood
Runs so faint in womanhood.
Then I always was too grave-
Liked the saddest ballad sung-
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces, who die young.
I had died, Dear, all the same;
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.
We are so unlike each other,
Thou and I, that none could guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.
I am pale as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root;
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus underfoot.
I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree-
Thou like merry summer-bee!
Fit, that I be plucked for thee.
Yet who plucks me ?-no one mourns,
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.
Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say. Nay? So best!-so angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of God.
Colder grow my hands and feet.
When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread, That if any friend should come, (To see thee, sweet!) all the room May be lifted out of gloom.
And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which, at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave-where it will light
All the Dark up, day and night.
On that grave, drop not a tear!
Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woollen shroud I wear
I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessèd one,
Thinking of me in the sun,
Or forget me-smiling on!
Art thou near me? nearer? so!
Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly, as it used to rise,
When I watched the morning-gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.
"Sweetest eyes!" how sweet in flowings
The repeated cadence is!
Though you sang a hundred poems,
Still the best one would be this.
I can hear it
And the earth-noise intervene"Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!"
But the priest waits for the praying,
And the choir are on their knees,
And the soul must pass away in
Strains more solemn high than these.
Miserere
Oh, no longer for Catrine,
"Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!"
Keep my ribbon, take and keep it,
(I have loosed it from my hair)
Feeling, while you overweep it,
Not alone in your despair,
Since with saintly
Watch unfaintly
Out of heaven shall o'er you lean "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen."
But-but now-yet unremovèd
Up to Heaven they glisten fast. You may cast away, Beloved, In your future all my past. Such old phrases May be praises
For some fairer bosom-queen"Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!
Eyes of mine, what are ye doing?
Faithless, faithless-praised amiss
If a tear be of your showing,
Dropped for any hope of HIS!
Death has boldness
Besides coldness,
If unworthy tears demean
"Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.".
I will look out to his future;
I will bless it till it shine.
Should he ever be a suitor
Unto sweeter eyes than mine,
Sunshine gild them,
Angels shield them,
Whatsoever eyes terrene
Be the sweetest HIS have seen!
DE PROFUNDIS.
THE face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With daily love, is dimmed away-
And yet my days go on, go on.
The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with "Good-day "
Made each day good, is hushed away-
And yet my days go on, go on.
She left him the ribbon from her hair.
The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon;
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away-
And yet my days go on, go on.
And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here-
While the tears drop, my days go on.
The world goes whispering to its own,
"This anguish pierces to the bone."
And tender friends go sighing round,
"What love can ever cure this wound?"
My days go on, my days go on.
The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss!
And life, that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.
Breath freezes on my lips to moan;
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.
I knock and cry, . Undone, undone !
Is there no help, no comfort
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.
This Nature though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June.
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?
No bird am I to sing in June,
And dare pot ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures-
And yet my days go on, go on.
I ask less kindness to be done
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,
Till days go out which now go on.
Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on."
What harm would that do? Green anon
The sward would quicken, overshone
By skies as blue; and crickets might
Have leave to chirp there day and night
While my new rest went on, went on.
From gracious Nature have I won
Such liberal bounty? May I run
So, lizard-like, within her side,
And there be safe, who now am tried
By days that painfully go on?
-A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's, when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep,
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.
God's Voice, not Nature's-night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Dayspring He, whose days go on.
He reigns above, he reigns alone:
Systems burn out and leave His throne:
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around Him, changeless amid all!-
Ancient of days, whose days go on!
He reigns below, He reigns alone,-
And having life in love foregone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reins the jealous God. Who mourns
Or rules with HIM, while days go on?
By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear Him charge his saints that none
Among the creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against Him with despair,
However darkly days go on.
-Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!
No mortal grief deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee
Whose days eternally go on!
For us,.. whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood:
Only the Good discerns the good.
I trust Thee while my days go on.
Whatever's lost, it first was won:
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here [clear.
That Heaven's new wine might show more
I praise Thee while my days go on!
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here, The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
And I proud, by that test.
What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat littte coat!
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