Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 5

X.

What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'd To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?

An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!

Or have I dreamt of courts.h.i.+p out in Inde In some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd, And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.

XI.

I will not weep. I will not in the night Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees, Appeal for pity! In the cl.u.s.tered trees The wind is boasting of its one delight; And I will boast of mine, in thy despite, And say I love thee more than all of these.

XII.

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings, The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere, The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,-- All these, and more, all these ecstatic things, Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings, And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.

XIII.

Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell, More than the most we know of, one and all, Do talk of Love. There is no other call From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel, Than Love's alone--the thing we cannot quell, Do what we will, from font to funeral.

XIV.

What have I done, I only on the earth, That I should wait a century for a word?

A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd Since last we met, and then it was in dearth Of gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth, My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.

XV.

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sound Of that sweet oracle which once did tend To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend; And I would know't if darkly underground I lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd, I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.

XVI.

There! take again the kiss I took from thee Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream And drew thee closer than a monk may deem Good for the soul. I know not how it be, But this I know: if G.o.d be good to me I shall be raised again to thine esteem.

XVII.

I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.

And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind How, in the night, a murmur not unkind Broke on mine ear; a something new and old Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told Of some great hope with madness intertwined.

XVIII.

And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear, There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.

These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm To choose their queen. But ere they did appear, I heard again that murmur in mine ear Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.

XIX.

"What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep, And turned to thee, as April unto May.

"Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day, Now and for ever?" And I heard thee weep, And then persuade; and then my soul did leap Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.

XX.

I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart, Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.

And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come Forth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start, To find thee gone. The day had taken part Against the total of my blisses' sum.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Letter V CONFESSIONS]

LETTER V.

CONFESSIONS.

I.

O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life!

Mine and not mine, a being of the sky Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why-- Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife With thy poor servant? War unto the knife, Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?

II.

Is't well to visit me with thy disdain, And rack my soul, because, for love of thee, I was too p.r.o.ne to sink upon my knee, And too intent to make my meaning plain, And too resolved to make my loss a gain To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?

III.

O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.

Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?

Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this: To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?

Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?

IV.

Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart From all fair gardens, and from skies above, When thou art near. For thou art like a dove, And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.

V.

Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin, To wake and find the fancies of the brain Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain Of some lost music, and we find within, Deep in the heart, the record of a sin, The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.

[Ill.u.s.tration]