At Pompeii I heard a woman laugh,
And turned to find the reason of her mirth ;
Saw but the silent figure of a girl
That centuries had mummied into earth :
The running figure of a little maid
With face half-hidden in her shielding arm,
Silent, yet screaming, yea, in ev'ry limb
The cruel torture of her dread alarm.
At Pompeii I heard a maiden shriek
All down the years from out the distant past ;
Blind in the awful darkness still she runs ;
Death in the mould of fear her form has cast.
A little maid once soft and sweet and white,
Full of the morning's hope, and love and joy,
That Nature, moving to the voice of Time,
Shook her dark wings to wither and destroy.
The green has come to the leafless tree,
The earth brings forth its grain ;
The rose has come for the honey bee :
You will not come again.
The birds have come to the empty nest,
All winter full of rain ;
Music has come where the silence was :
You will not come again.
Love swift will come for the weak lambs' cry ;
Ah for my heart's dull pain !
Lone in the cycle of change am I :
You will not come again.
I CLOSED my hands upon a moth
And when I drew my palms apart,
Instead of dusty, broken wings,
I found a bleeding human heart.
I crushed my foot upon a worm
That had my garden for its goal,
But when I drew my foot aside
I found a dying human soul.
When the dark comes,
" Is this the end ? " I pray ;
No answer from the night,
And then once more the day.
I take the world again
Upon my neck and go
Pace with the serious hours.
Since fate will have it so,
Begone, dead man, unclasp
Your hands from round my heart,
I and my burden pass.
You and your peace depart.
I PRAYED SO eagerly,
" Turn and see
How bitter I have striven —
A word and all forgiven."
I prayed so eagerly.
I prayed so eagerly —
Not to be ;
You turned and passed. Goodbye !
Fates smile for me, dreamed I —
Yet I prayed eagerly.
I STRUCK you once, I do remember well.
Hard on the track of passion sorrow sped,
And swift repentance, weeping for the blow ;
I struck you once — and now you're lying dead !
Now you are gone the blow no longer sleeps
In your forgiveness hushed through all the years ;
But like a phantom haunts me through the dark,
To cry, " You gave your own beloved tears."
Stript now of all excuses, stern and stark.
With all your small transgressings dimmed or fled,
The ghost returns the blow upon my heart.
I struck you once — and now you're lying dead.
Let there be an end
And all be done ;
Pass over, fair eclipse,
That hides the sun.
Dear face that shades the light
And shadows me,
Begone, and give me peace,
And set me free.
In the heart of a rose
Lies the heart of a maid ;
If you be not afraid
You will wear it. Who knows ?
In the pink of its bloom,
Lay your lips to her cheek ;
Since a rose cannot speak,
And you gain the perfume.
If the dews on the leaf
Are the tears from her eyes ;
If she withers and dies,
Why, you have the belief,
That a rose cannot speak,
Though the heart of a maid
In its bosom must fade.
And with fading must break.
Goodbye, sweet friend, goodbye
And all the world must be
Between my friend and me ;
And nothing is, dear heart,
But hands that meet to part ;
Goodbye, sweet friend, goodbye.
Goodbye, sweet love, goodbye,
And one long grave must be
Between my love and me ;
What comfort there, dear heart,
For hands that meet to part ?
Goodbye, sweet love, goodbye.
He wrote upon his heart
As on the door of some dark ancient house:
Who once lived here has long been dead
As dead as moss-grown stone
Only a ghost inhabits here
One that would be alone
Only a ghost inhabits here
A ghost without desire
Who sits before a shadowed hearth
And warms to a spectral fire....
Ah! to be able to sing,
To sorrow in melody;
To string with silver
Sorrow's dark harp!
Or, mount every thorn
Crowning life's brow
With lustrous stars--
Those tears of the sky.
Rolling down its face
When night's hand puts
Darkness's crown on its head
As twilight dies.
None of these, for my soul;
Only to weep is given to me,
To nourish my heart's crop
For the scythe of barrenness to reap.
Flames flickered in the fireplace,
As memories on the hearth of life;
Two shadows we, watching, brooding,
To catch our reflection
In a non-existent stream.
The ghost-witness of it all,
The clock brings its proofs;
Moments melt into moments,
Like notes of sad music,
Like a white cerement.
Cold memories shroud our life;
Speech flees before this;
Faces turn away from each other;
The fire throws light on them;
There, too, flames burn and flicker.