7

_The wind rises; the trees are agitated._

Woods, that beat the wind with frantic Gestures and drop darkly 'round Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic Wildly on the rustling ground!

Is it tragic grief that saddens Through your souls this autumn day?

Or the joy of death that gladdens In exultance of decay?

Arrogant you lift defiant Boughs against the moaning blast, That, like some invisible giant, Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.

Is it that in such insurgent Fury tossed from tree to tree, You would quench the fiercely urgent Pangs of some old memory?

As in toil and violent action, That still help them to forget, Mortals drown the dark distraction And insistence of regret.

8

_She muses in the gathering twilight._

Last night I slept till midnight; then woke, and far away A c.o.c.k crowed; lonely and distant came mournful a watch-dog's bay: But lonelier, sadder the tedious, old clock ticked on towards day.

And what a day!--remember those morns of summer and spring, That bound our lives together! each morn a wedding-ring Of dew, aroma and sparkle, and flowers and birds a-wing.

Sweet morns when I strolled my garden awaiting him, the rose Expected too, with blushes--the Giant-of-Battle that grows A bank of radiance and fragrance where the gate its shadow throws.

Not in vain did I wait, departed summer, amid your phlox!

The powdery crystal and crimson of your hollow hollyhocks; Your fairy-bells and poppies and the bee that in them rocks.

Cool-clad 'neath the pendulous purple of the morning-glory vine, By the jewel-mine of the pansies and the snapdragons in line, I waited, and there he met me whose heart was one with mine.

How warm was the breath of the garden when he met me there that day!

How the burnished beetle and b.u.t.terfly flew past us, each a ray!-- The memory of those meetings still bears me far away.

Ah, me! when I think of the handfuls of little gold coins a-ma.s.s My bachelor's-b.u.t.tons scattered over the garden gra.s.s, And the marigolds that boasted their bits of burning bra.s.s;

More bitter I feel the autumn tighten 'round spirit and heart; And regret the days remembered as lost--that stand apart, A chapter holy and sacred, I read with eyes that smart.

Again to the woods a-trysting by the watermill I steal, Where the lilies tumble together, the madcap wind at heel; And meet him among the blossoms that the rocks and the trees conceal.

Or the wild-cat grey of the meadows that the ox-eyed daisies dot; Fawn-eyed and tiger-yellow, that tangle a tawny spot Of languid leopard beauty that dozes fierce and hot....

Ah! back again with the present! with winds that pinch and twist The leaves in their peevish pa.s.sion, and whirl wherever they list; With the autumn, h.o.a.ry and nipping, whose mausolean mist

Builds wan a tomb for the daylight;--each morning s.h.a.ggy with fog, That fits grey wigs to the cedars, and furs with frost each log; That carpets with pearl the meadow, and marbles brook and bog,--

Alone at dawn--indifferent: alone at eve--I sigh: And wait, like the wind complaining: complain and know not why: But ailing and longing and pining because I do not die.

How dull is that sunset! dreary and cold, and hard and dead!

The ghost of the one last August that, deeply rich and red, Like the wine of G.o.d's own vintage, poured purple overhead.

But now I sit with the sighing dead dreams of a dying year; Like the fallen leaves and the acorns, am worthless and feel as sear, With a withered soul and body whose heart is one big tear.

As I stare from my window the daylight, like a bravo, its cloak puts on.

The moon, like a cautious lanthorn, glitters and then is gone.-- Will he come to-night? will he answer?--Oh, G.o.d! would it were dawn!

9

_He enters. Taking her in his arms he speaks._

They said you were dying-- You shall not die!...

Why are you crying?

Why do you sigh?-- Cease that sad sighing!-- Love, it is I.

All is forgiven!-- Love is not poor; Though he was driven Once from your door, Back he has striven, To part nevermore!

Will you remember What I forget?-- Words, each an ember, That you regret?

Now in November, Now we have met?

What if love wept once!

What though you knew!

What if he crept once Pleading to you!-- He never slept once, Nor was untrue.

Often forgetful, Love may forget; Froward and fretful, Dear, he will fret; Ever regretful, He will regret.

Life is completer Through his control; Living made sweeter Even through dole, Hearing Love's metre Sing in the soul.

Flesh may not hear it, Being impure; And mind may fear it, May not endure; But in the spirit-- There we are sure.

So when to-morrow Ceases, and we Quit this we borrow, Mortality, Love chastens sorrow So it can see....

Still you are weeping!

Why do you weep?-- Are tears in keeping With joy so deep?

Gladness so sweeping?-- Are you asleep?

Speak to me, dearest!

Say it is true!-- That I am nearest, Dearest to you.-- Smile with those clearest Eyes of grey blue.

10

_She smiles through her tears; holding his hands she speaks._

They did not say I could not live beyond this weary night, But now I know that I shall die before the morning's light.

How weak I am!--but you'll forgive me when I tell you how I loved you--love you; and the pain it is to leave you now?

We could not marry!--See, the flesh, that clothes the soul of me, Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity, Denied, forbade.--Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeks Flush hectic, as before the night the west burns blood-red streaks?

Consumption.--"But I promised you my hand"?--a thing forlorn Of life; diseased!--Oh, G.o.d!--and so, far better so, forsworn!-- Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had died Ere babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side!