The room is full of you!—As I came in And closed the door behind me, all at once A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!— Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed Each other room's dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,— The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death— Has strangled that habitual breath of home Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.
Save here.
Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!" You are not here.
I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes Would kiss me from the door.—So short a time To teach my life its transposition to This difficult and unaccustomed key!— The room is as you left it; your last touch— A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself As saintly—hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light.
There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table,—I cannot believe That you are gone!—Just then it seemed to me You must be here.
I almost laughed to think How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end";
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.
Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed Out of the room, rocked silently a while Ere it again was still.
When you were gone Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro… And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page In this brown book I gave you.
Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t," And here another like it, just beyond These two eccentric "e's." You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand! How strange it seems That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know You would not write again.
If you had known— But then, it does not matter,—and indeed If you had known there was so little time You would have dropped your pen and come to me And this page would be empty, and some phrase Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day." To-day!
Was there an opening bud beside it You left until to-morrow?—O my love,
The things that withered,—and you came not back!
That day you filled this circle of my arms That now is empty. (O my empty life!) That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pea,— And brought it in to show me!
I recall With terrible distinctness how the smell Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look You saw such unmistakable intent You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips. (You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.) And then your hands above my heart Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven When earth can be so sweet?—If only God Had let us love,—and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea!
I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet,—I am not sure.
I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then 'Twas much like any other flower to me,
Save that it was the first.
I did not know,
Then, that it was the last.
If I had known— But then, it does not matter.
Strange how few,
After all's said and done, the things that are Of moment. Few indeed!
When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more." There, there it dangles,—where's the little truth That can for long keep footing under that When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down!
I wish to see Just how a thing like that will look on paper! "I had you and I have you now no more." O little words, how can you run so straight Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme Has bound together, and hereafter aid In trivial expression, that have been So hideously dignified?—Would God That tearing you apart would tear the thread I strung you on!
Would God—O God, my mind Stretches asunder on this merciless rack Of imagery!
O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer? 'Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!
We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart.
I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.
And to-day The shining strip is rent; the exquisite Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled In the damp earth with you.
I have been torn In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me?
And what am I To life,—a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake Perpetually, to find its senses strained Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?
Dark,
Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast,—save that contrast's wall Is down, and all opposed things flow together Into a vast monotony, where night And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms.
What now—what now to me Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers That clutter up the world?
You were my song!
Now, let discord scream!
You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds!
For I shall not Plant things above your grave—(the common balm Of the conventional woe for its own wound!) Amid sensations rendered negative By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth With travesties of suffering, nor seek To effigy its incorporeal bulk In little wry-faced images of woe.
I cannot call you back; and I desire No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";
I know not where you are,
I do not know If heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know:—not for one second's space Shall I insult my sight with visionings Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed Beholds, self-conjured in the empty air.
Let the world wail!
Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb! —What do I say?
God!
God!—God pity me!
Am I gone mad That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken?
Would to God I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk awhile, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting!
Would I too might weep Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths For its new dead!
Not Truth, but Faith, it is That keeps the world alive.
If all at once Faith were to slacken,—that unconscious faith Which must,
I know, yet be the corner-stone Of all believing,—birds now flying fearless Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins Would tangle in the frantic hands of God And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!
O God,
I see it now, and my sick brain Staggers and swoons!
How often over me Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight In which I see the universe unrolled Before me like a scroll and read thereon Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed With every spin, to waver on the edge One instant—looking over—and the next To shudder and lurch forward out of sight— Ah,
I am worn out—I am wearied out— It is too much—I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep.
Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood, and I must sleep.
