One Day & Another Part 9

Sick of myself and all the Earth, I ask my soul now--is life worth The little pleasure that we gain For all our sorrow and our pain?

The love, to which we gave our best, That turns a mockery and a jest?

12

_Among the twilight fields._

The things we love, the loveliest things we cherish, Pa.s.s from us soonest, vanish utterly.

Dust are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perish Ere we can say _they be_!

I have loved man and learned we are not brothers-- Within myself, perhaps, may lie the cause;-- Then set one woman high above all others, And found her full of flaws.

Made unseen stars my keblahs of devotion; Aspired to knowledge and remained a clod: With heart and soul, led on by blind emotion, The way to failure trod.

Chance, say, or fate that works through good and evil; Or destiny, that nothing may r.e.t.a.r.d, That to some end, above life's empty level, Perhaps withholds reward.

PART IV

LATE AUTUMN

_They who die young are blest.-- Should we not envy such?

They are Earth's happiest, G.o.d-loved and favored much!-- They who die young are blest._

1

_Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window._

'Though the dog-tooth violet come With April showers, And the wild-bees' music hum About the flowers, We shall never wend as when Love laughed leading us from men Over violet vale and glen, Where the bob-white piped for hours, And we heard the rain-crow's drum.

Now November heavens are gray; Autumn kills Every joy--like leaves of May In the rills.-- Still I sit and lean and listen To a voice that has arisen In my heart--with eyes that glisten Looking at the happy hills Fading dark-blue far away.

2

_She gazes out upon the dying garden._

There rank death clutches at the flowers And drags them down and stamps in earth.

At morn the thin, malignant hours, Shrill-mouthed among the windy bowers, Clamor a bitter mirth.-- Or is it heart-break that, forlorn, Would so conceal itself in scorn?

At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls, Like feeble feet once beautiful, From mildewed walks to mildewed walls, Down which the oozing moisture falls Upon the cold toadstool.-- Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps-- Or is it tears of one who weeps?

At night a misty blur of moon Slips through the trees,--pale as a face Of melancholy marble hewn;-- And, like the phantom of some tune, Winds whisper in the place.-- Or is it love come back again, Seeking its perished joy in vain?

3

_She muses upon the past._

When in her cloudy chiton, Spring freed the frozen rills, And walked in rainbowed light on The forests, fields, and hills; Beyond the world's horizon, That no such glory lies on, And no such hues bedizen, Love led us far from ills.

When Summer came, a sickle Stuck in her sheaf of gleams, And let the honey trickle From out the beehives' seams; Within the violet-blotted Sweet book to us alloted,-- Whose lines are starry dotted,-- Love read us still his dreams.

Then Autumn came,--a liar, A fair-faced heretic;-- In gypsy garb of fire, Throned on a harvest rick.-- Our lives, that fate had thwarted, Stood pale and broken hearted,-- Though smiling when we parted,-- Where love to death lay sick.

Now is the Winter waited, The tyrant h.o.a.r and old, With death and hunger mated, Who counts his crimes like gold.-- Once more before forever We part--once more, then never-- Once more before we sever Must I his face behold!

4

_She takes up a book and reads._

What little things are those That hold our happiness!

A smile, a glance, a rose Dropped from her hair or dress; A word, a look, a touch,-- These are so much, so much.

An air we can't forget; A sunset's gold that gleams; A spray of migonette, Will fill the soul with dreams More than all history says, Or romance of old days.

For of the human heart, Not brain, is memory; These things it makes a part Of its own ent.i.ty; The joys, the pains whereof Are the very food of love.

5

_She lays down the book._

How true! how true!--but words are weak In sympathy they give the soul, To music--music, that can speak All the heart's pain and dole; Still making us remember most The love we've lost, the love we've lost.

So weary am I, and so fain To see his face, to feel his kiss Thrill rapture through my soul again, There is no h.e.l.l like this.-- Ah, G.o.d! my G.o.d, were it not best To give me rest, to give me rest?

6

_She writes to him to come to her._

Dead lie the dreams we cherished, The dreams we loved so well; Like forest leaves they perished, Like autumn leaves they fell.

Alas! that dreams so soon should pa.s.s!

Alas! Alas!

The stream lies bleak and arid That once went singing on; The flowers once that varied Its banks are dead and gone: Where these were once are thorns and thirst-- The place is curst.

Come to me; I am lonely: Forgive what you have heard.-- Come to me; if for only One last sad parting word: For one last word before the pall Falls over all.

The day and hour are suited For what I'd say to you Of love that I uprooted-- But I have suffered too!

Come to me; I would say good-by Before I die.