Poems About Heartbreak

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shadeOf the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowedThrough the meadow, across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking downOn her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draughtFrom a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whetherThe cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,And her graceful ankles, bare and brown,

And listened, while a pleased surpriseLooked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delaySeeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat,My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay,And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,And saw Maud Muller standing still:

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful airShow her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day,Like her, a harvester of hay.

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle, and song of birds,And health, and quiet, and loving words."

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold,And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,When he hummed in court an old love tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyesLooked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,He longed for the wayside well instead,

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,To dream of meadows and clover blooms;

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain,"Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that dayWhere the barefoot maiden raked the hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hotOn the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fallOver the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree againShe saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with a timid grace,She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen wallsStretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,The tallow candle an astral burned;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for judge,For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope liesDeeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels mayRoll the stone from its grave away!

Like sibyls of the future; they have power,--The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;They make us what we were not,--what they will,And shake us with the vision that's gone by.The dread of vanished shadows.--Are they so?Is not the past all shadow? What are they?Creations of the mind?--The mind can makeSubstances, and people planets of its ownWith beings brighter than have been, and giveA breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.I would recall a vision which I dreamedPerchance in sleep,--for in itself a thought,A slumbering thought, is capable of years,And curdles a long life into one hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youthStanding upon a hill, a gentle hill,Green and of a mild declivity, the lastAs 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,Save that there was no sea to lave its base,But a most living landscape, and the waveOf woods and cornfields, and the abodes of menScattered at intervals, and wreathing smokeArising from such rustic roofs; the hillWas crowned with a peculiar diademOf trees, in circular array, so fixed,Not by the sport of nature, but of man:These two, a maiden and a youth, were thereGazing,--the one on all that was beneathFair as herself,--but the boy gazed on her;And both were young, and one was beautiful;And both were young,--yet not alike in youth.As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,The maid was on the eve of womanhood;The boy had fewer summers, but his heartHad far outgrown his years, and to his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth,And that was shining on him; he had lookedUpon it till it could not pass away;He had no breath, no being, but in hers;She was his voice; he did not speak to her,But trembled on her words; she was his sight,For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,Which colored all his objects;--he had ceasedTo live with himself: she was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts,Which terminated all; upon a tone,A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,And his cheek change tempestuously;--his heartUnknowing of its cause of agony.But she in these fond feelings had no share:Her sighs were not for him; to her he wasEven as a brother,--but no more; 'twas much,For brotherless she was, save in the nameHer infant friendship had bestowed on him;Herself the solitary scion leftOf a time-honored race. It was a nameWhich pleased him, and yet pleased him not,--and why?Time taught him a deep answer--when she lovedAnother; even now she loved another,And on the summit of the hill she stood,Looking afar if yet her lover's steedKept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.There was an ancient mansion, and beforeIts walls there was a steed caparisoned;Within an antique oratory stoodThe boy of whom I spake;--he was alone,And pale, and pacing to and fro: anonHe sate him down, and seized a pen and tracedWords which I could not guess of; then he leanedHis bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twereWith a convulsion,--then arose again,And with his teeth and quivering hands did tearWhat he had written, but he shed no tears,And he did calm himself, and fix his browInto a kind of quiet; as he paused,The lady of his love re-entered there;She was serene and smiling then, and yetShe knew she was by him beloved; she knew--For quickly comes such knowledge--that his heartWas darkened with her shadow, and she sawThat he was wretched, but she saw not all.He rose, and with a cold and gentle graspHe took her hand; a moment o'er his faceA tablet of unutterable thoughtsWas traced, and then it faded, as it came;He dropped the hand he held, and with slow stepsRetired, but not as bidding her adieu,For they did part with mutual smiles; he passedFrom out the massy gate of that old Hall,And mounting on his steed he went his way;And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wildsOf fiery climes he made himself a home,And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girtWith strange and dusky aspects; he was notHimself like what he had been; on the seaAnd on the shore he was a wanderer;There was a mass of many imagesCrowded like waves upon me, but he wasA part of all; and in the last he layReposing from the noontide sultriness,Couched among fallen columns, in the shadeOf ruined walls that had survived the namesOf those who reared them; by his sleeping sideStood camels grazing, and some goodly steedsWere fastened near a fountain; and a man,Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,While many of his tribe slumbered around:And they were canopied by the blue sky,So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love was wed with oneWho did not love her better: in her home,A thousand leagues from his,--her native home,She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,Daughters and sons of beauty,--but behold!Upon her face there was the tint of grief,The settled shadow of an inward strife,And an unquiet drooping of the eye,As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.What could her grief be?--she had all she loved,And he who had so loved her was not thereTo trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.What could her grief be?--she had loved him not,Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,Nor could he be a part of that which preyedUpon her mind--a spectre of the past.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The wanderer was returned.--I saw him standBefore an altar--with a gentle bride;Her face was fair, but was not that which madeThe starlight of his boyhood;--as he stoodEven at the altar, o'er his brow there cameThe selfsame aspect and the quivering shockThat in the antique oratory shookHis bosom in its solitude; and then--As in that hour--a moment o'er his faceThe tablet of unutterable thoughtsWas traced,--and then it faded as it came,And he stood calm and quiet, and he spokeThe fitting vows, but heard not his own words,And all things reeled around him; he could seeNot that which was, nor that which should have been,--But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,And the remembered chambers, and the place,The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,All things pertaining to that place and hour,And her who was his destiny, came backAnd thrust themselves between him and the light;What business had they there at such a time?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love;--O, she was changed,As by the sickness of the soul! her mindHad wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,They had not their own lustre, but the lookWhich is not of the earth; she was becomeThe queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughtsWere combinations of disjointed things,And forms impalpable and unperceivedOf others' sight familiar were to hers.And this the world calls frenzy; but the wiseHave a far deeper madness, and the glanceOf melancholy is a fearful gift;What is it but the telescope of truth,Which strips the distance of its fantasies,And brings life near in utter nakedness,Making the cold reality too real!

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The wanderer was alone as heretofore,The beings which surrounded him were gone,Or were at war with him; he was a markFor blight and desolation, compassed roundWith hatred and contention; pain was mixedIn all which was served up to him, until,Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,He fed on poisons, and they had no power,But were a kind of nutriment; he livedThrough that which had been death to many men,And made him friends of mountains: with the starsAnd the quick Spirit of the universeHe held his dialogues; and they did teachTo him the magic of their mysteries;To him the book of Night was opened wide,And voices from the deep abyss revealedA marvel and a secret.--Be it so.

My dream was past; it had no further change.It was of a strange order, that the doomOf these two creatures should be thus traced outAlmost like a reality,--the oneTo end in madness--both in misery.

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weedTook up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassedFive beetles, - blind and green they gropeAmong the honey-meal: and last,Everywhere on the grassy slopeI traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleeceOf feathery grasses everywhere!Silence and passion, joy and peace,And everlasting wash of air -Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,Such miracles performed in play,Such primal naked forms of flowers,Such letting Nature have her wayWhile Heaven looks from its towers!

How say you? Let us, O my dove,Let us be unashamed of soul,As earth lies bare to heaven above!How is it under our controlTo love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me,You that are just so much, no more.Nor yours, nor mine - nor slave nor free!Where does the fault lie? What the coreOf the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,See with your eyes, and set my heartBeating by yours, and drink my fillAt your soul's springs, - your part, my partIn life, for good and ill.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close,Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,Catch your soul's warmth, - I pluck the roseAnd love it more than tongue can speak -Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so farOut of that minute? Must I goStill like the thistle-ball, no bar,Onward, whenever light winds blow,Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn!Where is the thread now? Off again!The old trick! Only I discern -Infinite passion, and the painOf finite hearts that yearn.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'eSaid, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee?Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?

My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he--Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me.Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree?O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow town We were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win,I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.And O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee,And I mysell were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!

And blessèd will the lover be That walks beneath their light,And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier,Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper’d thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here,That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore,With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before;And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore:It would have been a beauteous dream,-- If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines, She went away with song,With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng;But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Music’s wrong,In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you’ve loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! That vessel never boreSo fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,--Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore!The smile that bless’d one lover’s heart Has broken many more!

But thou thy freedom didst recall That it thou might elsewhere enthral: And then how could I but disdain A captive’s captive to remain?

When new desires had conquer’d thee And changed the object of thy will,It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so: Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice-- Thy choice of his good fortune boast;I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar’s door.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms.A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find,For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind.You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply.The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head.Not thrice your branching lines have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead.O your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be;But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view,She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you.Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear;Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall:The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall.You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth,And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bentThe grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'T is only noble to be good.Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers:The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours.In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease,You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands,Are there no beggars at your gate. Nor any poor about your lands?Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

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 casement-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 cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen’s lowCame to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mornAbout 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 blacken’d waters slept,And o’er it many, round and small, The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarlèd bark: For leagues no other tree did markThe 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 fellUpon 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 creak’d;The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,Or from the crevice peer’d about. Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors,Old voices call’d 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 soundWhich to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the dayWas 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 God, that I were dead!’

And in the place two fair streams are,Drawn from the purple hills afar,Drawn down unto the restless sea;The hills whose flowers ne’er fed the bee,The shore no ship has ever seen,Still beaten by the billows green,Whose murmur comes unceasinglyUnto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night,For which I let slip all delight,That maketh me both deaf and blind,Careless to win, unskill’d to find,And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am, and weak,Still have I left a little breathTo seek within the jaws of deathAn entrance to that happy place;To seek the unforgotten faceOnce seen, once kiss’d, once reft from meAnigh the murmuring of the sea.

Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fix’d me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenish’d me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’dBy many benedictions--sun’sAnd moon’s and evening-star’s at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!--Thus leant she and linger’d--joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soulSmooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush’d by on either side.I thought,--All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever pair’d?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave.There’s many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier’s doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you express’dYou hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,Have you yourself what’s best for men?Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time--Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turn’d a rhyme? Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor--so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that’s your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!’ I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being--had I sign’d the bond--Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet--she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life’s best, with our eyes upturn’dWhither life’s flower is first discern’d, We, fix’d so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,--And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repentThat wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bentDown to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,And upwards, joyous, like a rising star,She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer seaReclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,--She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin!I have been fond and foolish. Let me inTo expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!To be deceived in your true heart's desireWas bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

The Emperor there, in his box of state,Looked grave, as if he had just then seenThe red flag wave from the city-gateWhere his eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye.You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,For one moment, under the old blue sky,To the old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front-row box we sat,Together, my bride-betrothed and I;My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat,And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,With that regal, indolent air she had;So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking thenOf her former lord, good soul that he was!Who died the richest and roundest of men,The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,Through a needle's eye he had not to pass.I wish him well, for the jointure givenTo my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,As I had not been thinking of aught for years,Till over my eyes there began to moveSomething that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together,In that lost land, in that soft clime,In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot),And her warm white neck in its golden chain,And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,And falling loose again;

And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast,(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!)And the one bird singing alone to his nest,And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,And the letter that brought me back my ring.And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over;And I thought . . . "were she only living still,How I could forgive her, and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,And of how, after all, old things were best,That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flowerWhich she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,It made me creep, and it made me cold!Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheetWhere a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned, and looked. She was sitting thereIn a dim box, over the stage; and dressedIn that muslin dress with that full soft hair,And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here; and she was there;And the glittering horseshoe curved between: -From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair,And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,And over her primrose face the shade(In short from the Future back to the Past).There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future brideOne moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,I traversed the passage; and down at her sideI was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,Or something which never will be expressed,Had brought her back from the grave again,With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!But she loves me now, and she loved me then!And the very first word that her sweet lips said,My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas,She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass,She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,With her primrose face: for old things are best,And the flower in her bosom, I prize it aboveThe brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,And Love must cling where it can, I say:For Beauty is easy enough to win;But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,If only the dead could find out whenTo come back, and be forgiven.

But O the smell of that jasmine-flower!And O that music! and O the wayThat voice rang out from the donjon tower,Non ti scordar di me,Non ti scordar di me!

Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside,But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control;For his lips grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone: I thought of the pleasant days of yore:I said, "The staff of my life is gone: The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear--Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri, might have kept.For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said--"The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet, There stark she lay on her carven bed:Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart:I dared not look on the face of death: I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love;For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side:And at once the sweat broke over my brow. "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead."There is a portrait here," he began; "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago,When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me:"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered, ... "Let us see."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove,His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love."

We found the portrait there, in its place: We opened it by the tapers' shine:The gems were all unchanged: the face Was--neither his nor mine."One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried,"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept.For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept.

Among the summer woodlands wide Anew she roams, no more alone;The joy she feared is at her side, Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown,The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing toneFall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there nowTo mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widowed on her brow,Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow,To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze; Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fixed for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.

We two walk till the purple dieth, And short dry grass under foot is brown,But one little streak at a distance lieth Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down.

Over the grass we stepped unto it, And God, He knoweth how blithe we were!Never a voice to bid us eschew it; Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, We parted the grasses dewy and sheen:Drop over drop there filtered and slided A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, Light was our talk as of faery bells--Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, Down in their fortunate parallels.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, We lapped the grass on that youngling spring,Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, And said, "Let us follow it westering."

A dappled sky, a world of meadows; Circling above us the black rooks fly,'Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadows Flit on the blossoming tapestry--

Flit on the beck--for her long grass parteth, As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;And lo, the sun like a lover darteth His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather, Till one steps over the tiny strand,So narrow, in sooth, that still together On either brink we go hand in hand.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever, On either margin, our songs all done,We move apart, while she singeth ever, Taking the course of the stooping sun.

He prays, "Come over"--I may not follow; I cry, "Return"--but he cannot come:We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

A breathing sigh--a sigh for answer; A little talking of outward things:The careless beck is a merry dancer, Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.

A little pain when the beck grows wider-- "Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:""I may not cross" and the voice beside her Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

No backward path; ah! no returning: No second crossing that ripple's flow:"Come to me now, for the west is burning: Come ere it darkens."--"Ah, no! ah, no!"

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching-- The beck grows wider and swift and deep;Passionate words as of one beseeching-- The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep.

A yellow moon in splendor drooping, A tired queen with her state oppressed,Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping, Lies she soft on the waves at rest.

The desert heavens have felt her sadness; Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, And goeth stilly as soul that fears.

We two walk on in our grassy places, On either marge of the moonlit flood,With the moon's own sadness in our faces, Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, A little piping of leaf-hid birds;A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered, Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined;Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, Swell high in their freckled robes behind.

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide;A flashing edge for the milk-white river, The beck, a river--with still sleek tide.

Broad and white, and polished as silver, On she goes under fruit-laden trees;Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.

Glitters the dew, and shines the river; Up comes the lily and dries her bell;But two are walking apart forever, And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

A braver swell, a swifter sliding; The river hasteth, her banks recede;Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding Bear down the lily, and drown the reed.

Stately prows are rising and bowing-- (Shouts of mariners winnow the air)--And level sands for banks endowing The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.

While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, That moving speck on the far-off side!

Farther, farther--I see it--know it-- My eyes brim over, it melts away:Only my heart to my heart shall show it, As I walk desolate day by day.

And yet I know past all doubting, truly,-- A knowledge greater than grief can dim--I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- Yea, better--e'en better than I love him:

And as I walk by the vast calm river, The awful river so dread to see,I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."

World, is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death--or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup;I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up.O sweet place, desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me; Come back with any face,Summer!--do I care what you do? You cannot change one place,--The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot,--Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.

All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath,--All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart,Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours,--Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See,These are yours, in place of gladness,-- Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme,And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.