Part 10

A wee white spot of muslin fluff That down the diminishing platform bore Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough To the carriage door.

Under the lamplight’s fitful glowers, Behind dark groups from far and near, Whose interests were apart from ours, She would disappear,

Then show again, till I ceased to see That flexible form, that nebulous white; And she who was more than my life to me Had vanished quite . . .

We have penned new plans since that fair fond day, And in season she will appear again— Perhaps in the same soft white array— But never as then!

—“And why, young man, must eternally fly A joy you’ll repeat, if you love her well?” —O friend, nought happens twice thus; why, I cannot tell!

IN A CATHEDRAL CITY

THESE people have not heard your name; No loungers in this placid place Have helped to bruit your beauty’s fame.

The grey Cathedral, towards whose face Bend eyes untold, has met not yours; Your shade has never swept its base,

Your form has never darked its doors, Nor have your faultless feet once thrown A pensive pit-pat on its floors.

Along the street to maids well known Blithe lovers hum their tender airs, But in your praise voice not a tone.

—Since nought bespeaks you here, or bears, As I, your imprint through and through, Here might I rest, till my heart shares The spot’s unconsciousness of you!

SALISBURY.

“I SAY I’LL SEEK HER”

I SAY, “I’ll seek her side Ere hindrance interposes;” But eve in midnight closes, And here I still abide.

When darkness wears I see Her sad eyes in a vision; They ask, “What indecision Detains you, Love, from me?—

“The creaking hinge is oiled, I have unbarred the backway, But you tread not the trackway; And shall the thing be spoiled?

“Far cockcrows echo shrill, The shadows are abating, And I am waiting, waiting; But O, you tarry still!”

HER FATHER

I MET her, as we had privily planned, Where passing feet beat busily: She whispered: “Father is at hand! He wished to walk with me.”

His presence as he joined us there Banished our words of warmth away; We felt, with cloudings of despair, What Love must lose that day.

Her crimson lips remained unkissed, Our fingers kept no tender hold, His lack of feeling made the tryst Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.

A cynic ghost then rose and said, “But is his love for her so small That, nigh to yours, it may be read As of no worth at all?

“You love her for her pink and white; But what when their fresh splendours close? His love will last her in despite Of Time, and wrack, and foes.”

WEYMOUTH.

AT WAKING

WHEN night was lifting, And dawn had crept under its shade, Amid cold clouds drifting Dead-white as a corpse outlaid, With a sudden scare I seemed to behold My Love in bare Hard lines unfold.

Yea, in a moment, An insight that would not die Killed her old endowment Of charm that had capped all nigh, Which vanished to none Like the gilt of a cloud, And showed her but one Of the common crowd.

She seemed but a sample Of earth’s poor average kind, Lit up by no ample Enrichments of mien or mind. I covered my eyes As to cover the thought, And unrecognize What the morn had taught.