| |
From “Maud”
OH that ’t were possible, | |
| After long grief and pain, | |
| To find the arms of my true love | |
| Round me once again! | |
| |
| When I was wont to meet her | 5 |
| In the silent woody places | |
| Of the land that gave me birth, | |
| We stood tranced in long embraces | |
| Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter | |
| Than anything on earth. | 10 |
| |
| A shadow flits before me, | |
| Not thou, but like to thee; | |
| Ah Christ, that it were possible | |
| For one short hour to see | |
| The souls we loved, that they might tell us | 15 |
| What and where they be! | |
| |
| It leads me forth at evening, | |
| It lightly winds and steals | |
| In a cold white robe before me, | |
| When all my spirit reels | 20 |
| At the shouts, the leagues of lights, | |
| And the roaring of the wheels. | |
| |
| Half the night I waste in sighs, | |
| Half in dreams I sorrow after | |
| The delight of early skies; | 25 |
| In a wakeful doze I sorrow | |
| For the hand, the lips, the eyes— | |
| For the meeting of the morrow, | |
| The delight of happy laughter, | |
| The delight of low replies. | 30 |
| |
| ’T is a morning pure and sweet, | |
| And a dewy splendor falls | |
| On the little flower that clings | |
| To the turrets and the walls; | |
| ’T is a morning pure and sweet, | 35 |
| And the light and shadow fleet: | |
| She is walking in the meadow, | |
| And the woodland echo rings. | |
| In a moment we shall meet; | |
| She is singing in the meadow, | 40 |
| And the rivulet at her feet | |
| Ripples on in light and shadow | |
| To the ballad that she sings. | |
| |
| Do I hear her sing as of old, | |
| My bird with the shining head, | 45 |
| My own dove with the tender eye? | |
| But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry— | |
| There is some one dying or dead; | |
| And a sullen thunder is rolled; | |
| For a tumult shakes the city, | 50 |
| And I wake—my dream is fled; | |
| In the shuddering dawn, behold, | |
| Without knowledge, without pity, | |
| By the curtains of my bed | |
| That abiding phantom cold! | 55 |
| |
| Get thee hence, nor come again! | |
| Mix not memory with doubt, | |
| Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, | |
| Pass and cease to move about! | |
| ’T is the blot upon the brain | 60 |
| That will show itself without. | |
| |
| Then I rise; the eave-drops fall, | |
| And the yellow vapors choke | |
| The great city sounding wide; | |
| The day comes—a dull red ball | 65 |
| Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke | |
| On the misty river-tide. | |
| |
| Through the hubbub of the market | |
| I steal, a wasted frame; | |
| It crosses here, it crosses there, | 70 |
| Through all that crowd confused and loud | |
| The shadow still the same; | |
| And on my heavy eyelids | |
| My anguish hangs like shame. | |
| |
| Alas for her that met me, | 75 |
| That heard me softly call, | |
| Came glimmering through the laurels | |
| At the quiet evenfall, | |
| In the garden by the turrets | |
| Of the old manorial hall! | 80 |
| |
| Would the happy spirit descend | |
| From the realms of light and song, | |
| In the chamber or the street, | |
| As she looks among the blest, | |
| Should I fear to greet my friend | 85 |
| Or to say “Forgive the wrong,” | |
| Or to ask her, “Take me, sweet, | |
| To the regions of thy rest?” | |
| |
| But the broad light glares and beats, | |
| And the shadow flits and fleets | 90 |
| And will not let me be; | |
| And I loathe the squares and streets, | |
| And the faces that one meets, | |
| Hearts with no love for me; | |
| Always I long to creep | 95 |
| Into some still cavern deep, | |
| There to weep, and weep, and weep | |
| My whole soul out to thee. | |
| |
