Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go;
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again!
"Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein;
And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!
John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]
LA GRISETTE
Ah, Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had passed, I said, "We meet again, - I dreamed not in that idle glance Thy latest image came, And only left to memory's trance A shadow and a name.
The few strange words my lips had taught Thy timid voice to speak, Their gentler signs, which often brought Fresh roses to thy cheek, The trailing of thy long loose hair Bent o'er my couch of pain, All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; Oh, had we met again!
I walked where saint and virgin keep The vigil lights of Heaven, I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, And sins to be forgiven; I watched where Genevieve was laid, I knelt by Mary's shrine, Beside me low, soft voices prayed; Alas! but where was thine?
And when the morning sun was bright, When wind and wave were calm, And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, The rose of Notre Dame, I wandered through the haunts of men, From Boulevard to Quai, Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, The Pantheon's shadow lay.
In vain, in vain; we meet no more, Nor dream what fates befall; And long upon the stranger's shore My voice on thee may call, When years have clothed the line in moss That tells thy name and days, And withered, on thy simple cross, The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!
Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]
THE DARK MAN
Rose o' the World, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head; For joy of mine she left grief of hers, And garlanded me with a crown of furze.
Rose o' the World, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin; And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place.
Rose o' the World, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: And soft they speak of my darkened eyes - But what do they know, who are all so wise?
Rose o' the World, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live - Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding-day.
Rose o' the World, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead? Might go to the grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again?
Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir; But my fiddle knows - and I talk to her.
Nora Hopper [1871-1906]
EURYDICE
He came to call me back from death To the bright world above. I hear him yet with trembling breath Low calling, "O sweet love! Come back! The earth is just as fair; The flowers, the open skies are there; Come back to life and love!"
Oh! all my heart went out to him, And the sweet air above. With happy tears my eyes were dim; I called him, "O sweet love! I come, for thou art all to me. Go forth, and I will follow thee, Right back to life and love!
I followed through the cavern black; I saw the blue above. Some terror turned me to look back: I heard him wail, "O love! What hast thou done! What hast thou done!" And then I saw no more the sun, And lost were life and love.
Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]
A WOMAN'S THOUGHT
I am a woman - therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!
Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone - All silent and cold. If my heart riot - Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him - What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning - That he were lost to me.
Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me, Hurt beyond cure, - Calm and demure Then must I hold me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me - How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.
Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!
Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1900]
LAUS VENERIS A Picture By Burne-Jones
Pallid with too much longing, White with passion and prayer, Goddess of love and beauty, She sits in the picture there, -
Sits with her dark eyes seeking Something more subtle still Than the old delights of loving Her measureless days to fill.
She has loved and been loved so often In her long, immortal years, That she tires of the worn-out rapture, Sickens of hopes and fears.
No joys or sorrows move her, Done with her ancient pride; For her head she found too heavy The crown she has cast aside.
Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Bright with her glory of hair Sad that she is not mortal, - Eternally sad and fair,
Longing for joys she knows not, Athirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire.
Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]
ADONAIS
Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!
Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids forsworn, When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking-horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres; - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low.
Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung; - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.
William Wallace Harney [1831-1912]
FACE TO FACE
If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done.
If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face.
If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain, If the Autumn's gold burthen awoke no living pain, I would meet you and would greet you, as years ago we met, Before our hearts were shipwrecked on the ocean of regret.