True of these eyes that from her picture gaze, Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes; Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays, Where my world-weary head forever lies; True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool, Still on her lap as lilies on a pool.

Must I believe her dead--that this sweet clay, That even from her picture breathes perfume, Was carried on a fiery wind away, Or foully locked in the worm-whispering tomb; This casket rifled, ribald fingers thrust 'Mid all her dainty treasure--is _this_ dust!

Once such a dewy marvel of a girl, Warm as the sun, and ivory as the moon; All gone of her, all lost--except this curl Saved from her head one summer afternoon, Tied with a little ribbon from her breast-- This only mine, and Death's now all the rest.

Must I believe it true! Bid me not go Where on her grave the English violets blow; Nay, leave me--if a dream, indeed, it be-- Still in my dream that she is somewhere she, Silent, as was her wont. It is a lie-- She is not dead--I did not see her die.

SPRING'S PROMISES

When the spring comes again, will you be there?

Three springs I watched and waited for your face, And listened for your voice upon the air; I sought for you in many a hidden place, Saying, "She must be there."

"Surely some magic slumber holds her fast, She whose blue eyes were morning's earliest flowers,"

I sighed: and, one by one, before me pa.s.sed The rainbowed daughters of the vernal showers, Saying, "She comes at last."

Ah! broken promise of the world! how fair You speak young hearts! In many a wanton word Of lyric April, each succeeding year, By risen flower, and the returning bird, You vowed to bring back her.

And now the flutes are in the trees once more, The violets breathe up through the melting snow, Old Earth throws open wide her gra.s.sy door-- As if there were no violets long ago, Or any birds before.

"APRIL IS IN THE WORLD AGAIN"

April is in the world again, And all the world is filled with flowers-- Flowers for others, not for me!

For my one flower I cannot see, Lost in the April showers.

I cannot wake her, though I sing, And all the birds, for her dear sake, Fill with their songs the wintry brake; Ah! could they make her rise again, What resurrection would be mine!

Is she too tired to help the sun And all the little stars to shine?

"SINGING GO I"

Singing go I, seeking for ever a song Sung long ago; I ask no more to hear Her voice that sang--for I should do her wrong, Had I the power, to bring her once more near--

Near to the earth, its sorrow or its joy, To drag her back into the arms of pain And Love and all the April flowers again And all her little dreams of heaven destroy.

Have I the heart? Ah! had I but the song, The nightingale would listen and all things That talk in waterfalls and trees and strings Would hush themselves to listen as I sang, Had I the song.

"WHO WAS IT SWEPT AGAINST MY DOOR"

Who was it swept against my door just now, With rustling robes like Autumn's--was it thou?

Ah! would it were thy gown against my door-- Only thy gown once more.

Sometimes the snow, sometimes the fluttering breath Of April, as toward May she wandereth, Make me a moment think that it is thou-- But yet it is not thou!

"FACE IN THE TOMB THAT LIES SO STILL"

Face in the tomb, that lies so still, May I draw near, And watch your sleep and love you, Without word or tear.

You smile, your eyelids flicker; Shall I tell How the world goes that lost you?

Shall I tell?

Ah! love, lift not your eyelids; 'Tis the same Old story that we laughed at,-- Still the same.

We knew it, you and I, We knew it all: Still is the small the great, The great the small;

Still the cold lie quenches The flaming truth, And still embattled age Wars against youth.

Yet I believe still in the ever-living G.o.d That fills your grave with perfume, Writing your name in violets across the sod, Shielding your holy face from hail and snow; And, though the withered stay, the lovely go, No transitory wrong or wrath of things Shatters the faith--that each slow minute brings

That meadow nearer to us where your feet Shall flicker near me like white b.u.t.terflies-- That meadow where immortal lovers meet, Gazing for ever in immortal eyes.

"I KNOW NOT IN WHAT PLACE"

I know not in what place again I'll meet The face I love--but there is not a street In the wide world where you can wander, sweet, Without my finding you, with those great eyes; Nor is there any star in all the skies Can give you shelter from my pitiless love.

RESURRECTION

Is it your face I see, your voice I hear?

Your face, your voice, again after these years!

O is your cheek once more against my cheek?

And is this blessed rain, angel, your tears?

You have come back,--how strange--out of the grave; Its dreams are in your eyes, and still there clings Dust of the grave on your vainglorious hair; And a mysterious rust is on these rings--

The ring we gave each other, that young night When the moon rose on our betrothal kiss; When the sun rose upon our wedding day, How wonderful it was to give you this!

I dreamed you were a bird or a wild flower, Some changed lovely thing that was not you; Maybe, I said, she is the morning star, A radiance unfathomably far--

And now again you are so strangely near!

Your face, your voice, again after these years!

Is it your face I see, your voice I hear, And is this blessed rain, angel, your tears?

"WHEN THE LONG DAY HAS FADED"

When the long day has faded to its end, The flowers gone, and all the singing done, And there is no companion left save Death-- Ah! there is one, Though in her grave she lies this many a year, Will send a violet made of her blue eyes, A flowering whisper of her April breath, Up through the sleeping gra.s.s to comfort me, And in the April rain her tears shall fall.

"HER EYES ARE BLUEBELLS NOW"

Her eyes are bluebells now, her voice a bird, And the long sighing gra.s.s her elegy; She who a woman was is now a star In the high heaven shining down on me.