The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 92

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1877]

"A PLACE IN THY MEMORY"

A place in thy memory, Dearest!

Is all that I claim: To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name.

Another may woo thee, nearer; Another may win and wear: I care not though he be dearer, If I am remembered there.

Remember me, not as a lover Whose hope was crossed, Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost!

As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see, As a sister remembers a brother, O Dearest, remember me!

Could I be thy true lover, Dearest!

Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee: But a cloud on my pathway is glooming That never must burst upon thine; And heaven, that made thee all blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.

Remember me then! O remember My calm light love!

Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove.

That life will, though lonely, be sweet If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory.

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]

INCLUSIONS

Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?

My cheek is white, my check is worn, by many a tear run down.

Now leave a little s.p.a.ce, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?-- Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole; Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

MARIANA Mariana in the moated grange.--Measure For Measure

With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall.

The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her cas.e.m.e.nt-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The c.o.c.k sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cl.u.s.tered marish-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway.

But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, "The night is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about.

Old faces glimmered through the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without.

She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, O G.o.d, that I were dead!"

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

"ASK ME NO MORE"

From "The Princess"

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answered thee?

Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; I strove against the stream and all in vain; Let the great river take me to the main.

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, --Only sleep!