The Cup of Comus Part 7

Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers, Will lift from my dumb life the curse

Of longing, inarticulate, That keeps me sad and celibate.

_TRANSPOSED SEASONS_

The gentian and the bluebell so Can change my calendar, I know not how the year may go, Or what the seasons are: The months, in some mysterious wise, Take their expression from her eyes.

The gentian speaks to memory Of autumns long since gone, When _her_ blue eyes smiled up at me, And heaven was flushed with dawn: 'T was autumn then and leaves were sere, But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.

The bluebell says a message too Of springs long pa.s.sed away, When in my eyes her eyes of blue Gazed and 't was close of day: Spring spread around her fragrant chart, But it was autumn in my heart.

_THE OLD DREAMER_

Come, let's climb into our attic, In our house that's old and gray!

Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic, And--it's close of day.

Lay aside your rags and tatters, s.h.i.+rt and shoes so soiled with clay!

They're no use now. Nothing matters-- It is close of day.

Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire.

And no lamp to make a ray.-- Where's our servant, young Desire?-- Gone at close of day.

Oft she served us with fine glances, Helped us out at work and play: She is gone now; better chances; And it's close of day.

Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet?

Hope, who led us oft astray?

Has she proved herself a harlot At the close of day?

What's become of Dream and Vision?

Friends we thought were here to stay?

Has life clapped the two in prison At the close of day?

They are gone; and how we miss them!

They who made our garret gay.

How we used to hug and kiss them!-- But--'tis close of day.

Where's friend Love now?--Who supposes?-- Has he flung himself away?

Left us for a wreath of roses At the close of day?

And where's Song? the soul elected-- Has he quit us too for aye?-- Was it poverty he suspected Near the close of day?

How our attic rang their laughter!

How it echoed laugh and lay!

None may take their place hereafter?-- It is close of day.

We have done the best we could do.

Let us kneel awhile and pray.

Now, no matter what we would do, It is close of day.

Let's to bed then! It's December.

Long enough since it was May!-- Let's forget it, and remember Now 'tis close of day.

_A LAST WORD_

Oh, for some cup of consummating might, Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!

A wine of darkness, that with death shall cure This sickness called existence!--Oh to find Surcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind, An end of thought in something dark and sure!

Mandrake and h.e.l.lebore, or poison pure!-- Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams!-- No more, no more, with patience, to endure The wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems; Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time, And lamentations and the boasts of man!

To hear no more the wild complaints of toil, And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve: To see no more life's disregard for Art!

Oh G.o.d! to know no longer anything!

Nor good, nor evil, or what either means!

Nor hear the changing tides of customs roll On the dark sh.o.r.es of Time! No more to hear The stream of Life that furies on the shoals Of hard necessity! No more to see The unavailing battle waged of Need Against adversity!--Merely to lie, at last, Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod!

To think and dream no more! no more to hope!

At rest at last! at last at peace and rest, Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of root Bearing me upward in its large embrace To gentler things and fairer--clouds and winds, And stars and sun and moon! To undergo The change the great trees know when Spring comes in With shoutings and rejoicings of the rain, To swiftly rise an atom in a host, The myriad army of the leaves; and stand A handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is G.o.d!

To pulse in sap that beats unfevered in The life we call inanimate--the heart Of some great tree. And so, unconsciously, As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm, Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace, To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.

_THE SHADOW_

A shadow glided down the way Where sunset groped among the trees, And all the woodland bower, asway With trouble of the evening breeze.

A shape, it moved with head held down; I knew it not, yet seemed to know Its form, its carriage of a clown, Its raiment of the long-ago.

It never turned or spoke a word, But fixed its gaze on something far, As if within its heart it heard The summons of the evening star.

I turned to it and tried to speak; To ask it of the thing it saw, Or heard, beyond Earth's outmost peak-- The dream, the splendor, and the awe.

What beauty or what terror there Still bade its purpose to ascend Above the sunset's sombre glare, The twilight and the long day's end.

It looked at me but said no word: Then suddenly I saw the truth:-- _This_ was the call that once I heard And failed to follow in my youth.

Now well I saw that this was I-- My own dead self who walked with me, Who died in that dark hour gone by With all the dreams that used to be.