Part 19

“SOUL! Shall I see thy face,” she said, “In one brief hour? And away with thee from a loveless bed To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower, And be thine own unseparated, And challenge the world’s white glower?”

She quickened her feet, and met him where They had predesigned: And they clasped, and mounted, and cleft the air Upon whirling wheels; till the will to bind Her life with his made the moments there Efface the years behind.

III

Miles slid, and the sight of the port upgrew As they sped on; When slipping its bond the bracelet flew From her fondled arm. Replaced anon, Its cameo of the abjured one drew Her musings thereupon.

The gaud with his image once had been A gift from him: And so it was that its carving keen Refurbished memories wearing dim, Which set in her soul a throe of teen, And a tear on her lashes’ brim.

“I may not go!” she at length upspake, “Thoughts call me back— I would still lose all for your dear, dear sake; My heart is thine, friend! But my track I home to Athelhall must take To hinder household wrack!”

He appealed. But they parted, weak and wan: And he left the shore; His ship diminished, was low, was gone; And she heard in the waves as the daytide wore, And read in the leer of the sun that shone, That they parted for evermore.

VII

She homed as she came, at the dip of eve On Athel Coomb Regaining the Hall she had sworn to leave . . . The house was soundless as a tomb, And she entered her chamber, there to grieve Lone, kneeling, in the gloom.

VIII

From the lawn without rose her husband’s voice To one his friend: “Another her Love, another my choice, Her going is good. Our conditions mend; In a change of mates we shall both rejoice; I hoped that it thus might end!

“A quick divorce; she will make him hers, And I wed mine. So Time rights all things in long, long years— Or rather she, by her bold design! I admire a woman no balk deters: She has blessed my life, in fine.

“I shall build new rooms for my new true bride, Let the bygone be: By now, no doubt, she has crossed the tide With the man to her mind. Far happier she In some warm vineland by his side Than ever she was with me.”

THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR

WINTER is white on turf and tree, And birds are fled; But summer songsters pipe to me, And petals spread, For what I dreamt of secretly His lips have said!

O ’tis a fine May morn, they say, And blooms have blown; But wild and wintry is my day, My birds make moan; For he who vowed leaves me to pay Alone—alone!

THE MILKMAID

UNDER a daisied bank There stands a rich red ruminating cow, And hard against her flank A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.

The flowery river-ooze Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail; Few pilgrims but would choose The peace of such a life in such a vale.

The maid breathes words—to vent, It seems, her sense of Nature’s scenery, Of whose life, sentiment, And essence, very part itself is she.

She bends a glance of pain, And, at a moment, lets escape a tear; Is it that passing train, Whose alien whirr offends her country ear?—

Nay! Phyllis does not dwell On visual and familiar things like these; What moves her is the spell Of inner themes and inner poetries:

Could but by Sunday morn Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun, Trains shriek till ears were torn, If Fred would not prefer that Other One.

THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD

“O PASSENGER, pray list and catch Our sighs and piteous groans, Half stifled in this jumbled patch Of wrenched memorial stones!

“We late-lamented, resting here, Are mixed to human jam, And each to each exclaims in fear, ‘I know not which I am!’

“The wicked people have annexed The verses on the good; A roaring drunkard sports the text Teetotal Tommy should!

“Where we are huddled none can trace, And if our names remain, They pave some path or p-ing place Where we have never lain!