Verses - Susan Coolidge 2 стр.

  This is the street and the dwelling,
    Let me count the houses o'er;
  Yes,one, two, three from the corner,
    And the house that I love makes four.

  That is the very window
    Where I used to see her head
  Bent over book or needle,
    With ivy garlanded.

  And the very loop of the curtain,
    And the very curve of the vine,
  Were full of the grace and the meaning
    Which was hers by some right divine.

  I began to be glad at the corner,
    And all the way to the door
  My heart outran my footsteps,
    And frolicked and danced before,

  In haste for the words of welcome,
    The voice, the repose and grace,
  And the smile, like a benediction,
    Of that beautiful, vanished face.

  Now I pass the door, and I pause not,
    And I look the other way;
  But ever, a waft of fragrance,
    Too subtle to name or stay,

  Comes the thought of the gracious presence
    Which made that past time sweet,
  And still to those who remember,
    Embalms the house and the street,

  Like the breath from some vase, now empty
    Of a flowery shape unseen,
  Which follows the path of its lover,
    To tell where a rose has been.

  So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
  Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,
  Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
  As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair.
  Were they afraid that I should be afraid?
  I, who had died once and been laid in tomb?
  They need not.

                  Little one, look not so pale.
  I am not raving. Ah! you never heard
  The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
  Sit close, and listen. After this one day
  I shall not tell you stories any more.

  How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
  Almost a woman? Scarcely more than that
  Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;
  And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
  I left my father's house, a bride in May.
  You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,
  Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frown
  On the Mercato, humming at its base;
  And hold on high, out of the common reach,
  The lilies and carved shields above its door;
  And, higher yet, to catch and woo the sun,
  A little loggia set against the sky?
  That was my play-place ever as a child;
  And with me used to play a kinsman's son,
  Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!
  Two happy things we were, with none to chide
  Or hint that life was anything but play.

  Sudden the play-time ended. All at once
  "You must be wed," they told me. "What is wed?"
  I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,
  Let them put on the garland, smiled to see
  The glancing jewels tied about my neck;
  And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth
  By my grave husband, older than my sire.

  O the long years that followed! It would seem
  That the sun never shone in all those years,
  Or only with a sudden, troubled glint
  Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by
  Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love
  Raised to my face,my conscious, woful face.
  Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined
  Together, none forbidding, for so long.
  They let our childish fingers drop the seed,
  Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;
  They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,
  Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.
  I loved Antonio, and he loved me.

  Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!
  I loved Antonio, but I kept me pure,
  Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake
  Of him, my first-born child, my little child,
  Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look
  Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.
  I loved; but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!
  (Remember that, Madonna, when I come
  Before thy throne to-morrow. Be not stern,
  Or gaze upon me with reproachful look,
  Making my little angel hide his face
  And weep, while all the others turn glad eyes
  Rejoicing on their mothers.)

                                 It was hard
  To sit in darkness while the rest had light,
  To move to discords when the rest had song,
  To be so young and never to have lived.
  I bore, as women bear, until one day
  Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"
  And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,
  And what was blank before grew blanker still.

  It was a fever, so the leeches said.
  I had been dead so long, I did not know
  The difference, or heed. Oil on my breast,
  The garments of the grave about me wrapped,
  They bore me forth, and laid me in the tomb.
  The rich and beautiful and dreadful tomb,
  Where all the buried Amteris lie,
  Beneath the Duomo's black and towering shade.

  Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.
  It was night then, when I awoke to feel
  That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams
  Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door,
  The coffins of my fathers all about.
  Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,
  As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.
  With frantic strength I beat upon the grate.
  It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand
  Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore
  Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure
  Next time. NEXT TIME. That hurts me even now!

  Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which.
  High overhead Giotto's tower soared;
  Behind, the Duomo rose all white and black;
  Then pealed a sudden jargoning of bells,
  And down the darkling street I wildly fled,
  Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,
  Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.
  I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light
  And human touch; but still my witless steps
  Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped,
  By instinct, knocked, and called.

                                      A window oped.
  A voicet'was hisdemanded: "Who is there?"
  "Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone
  Change into horror, and he prayed aloud
  And called upon the saints, the while I urged,
  "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!
  I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"
  Then, with a crash, the window was shut fast;
  And, though I cried and beat upon the door
  And wailed aloud, no other answer came.

  Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove
  Down the hard distance towards my father's house.
  "They will have pity and will let me in,"
  I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."
  Cowards! At the high window overhead
  They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed:
  "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!
  I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!"
  "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.
  My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax
  To St. Eustachio, would he but remove
  This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp
  Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust
  From out the window, and my brother cried,
  "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"

  Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb
  And the cold coffined ones? Up the long street,
  Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.
  My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;
  My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose
  Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape
  Saw never Florence since. The people call
  That street through which I walked and wrung my hands
  "Street of the Dead One," even to this day.
  The sleeping houses stood in midnight black,
  And not a soul was in the streets but I.

  At last I saw a flickering point of light
  High overhead, in a dim window set.
  I had lain down to die; but at the sight
  I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength
  Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then
  It was Antonio's door by which I lay.

  A window opened, and a voice called out:
  "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,
  "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,
  And bid me hence." But, lo! a moment more
  The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch
  Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in.
  "O ghost or angel of my buried love,
  I know not, care not which, be welcome here!
  Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"
  I heard him say, and then I heard no more.

  It was high noontide when I woke again,
  To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,
  My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,
  Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,
  Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet
  Over the pavement to Antonio's door.
  Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs.
  Hot raged the quarrel; then came Justice in,
  And to the court we sweptI in my shroud
  To try the cause.

             This was the verdict given:
  "A woman who has been to burial borne,
  Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;
  Who at her husband's door has stood and plead
  For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;
  Who from her father's house is urged and chased,
  Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.

  The Court pronounces the defendantdead!
  She can resume her former ties at will,
  Or may renounce them, if such be her will.
  She is no more a daughter, or a spouse,
  Unless she choose, and is set free to form
  New ties, if so she choose."

                           O, blessed words!
  That very day we knelt before the priest,
  My love and I, were wed, and life began.

  Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,
  Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.
  'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.
  But time is brief, and, had I told you not,
  Haply the story would have met your ears
  From them, the Amieri, my own blood,
  Now turned to gall, whose foul and bitter lips
  Will wag with lies when once my lips are dumb.
  (Pardon me, Virgin. I was gentle once,
  And thou hast seen my wrongs. Thou wilt forgive.)
  Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,
  To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.
  I, who have died once, do not fear to die.

  Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.
  Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits
  Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,
  I know I shall not stand long at that gate,
  Or knock and be refused an entrance there,
  For he will start up when lie hears my voice,
  The saints will smile, and he will open quick.
  Only a night to part me from that joy.
  Jesu Maria! let the dawning come.

  Darlings of June and brides of summer sun,
    Chill pipes the stormy wind, the skies are drear;
  Dull and despoiled the gardens every one:
      What do you here?

  We looked to see your gracious blooms arise
    Mid soft and wooing airs in gardens green,
  Where venturesome brown bees and butterflies
      Should hail you queen.

  Here is no bee nor glancing butterfly;
    They fled on rapid wings before the snow:
  Your sister lilies laid them down to die,
      Long, long ago.

  And here, amid the slowly dropping rain,
    We keep our Easter feast, with hearts whose care
  Mars the high cadence of each lofty strain,
      Each thankful prayer.

  But not a shadow dims your joyance sweet,
    No baffled hope or memory darkly clad;
  You lay your whiteness at the Lord's dear feet,
      And are all glad.

  O coward soul! arouse thee and draw near,
    Led by these fragrant acolytes to-day!
  Let their sweet confidence rebuke thy fear,
      Thy cold delay.

  Come with thy darkness to the healing light,
    Come with thy bitter, which shall be made sweet,
  And lay thy soil beside the lilies white,
      At His dear feet!

  Long reaches of wet grasses sway
  Where ran the sea but yesterday,
  And white-winged boats at sunset drew
  To anchor in the crimsoning blue.
  The boats lie on the grassy plain,
  Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain;
  Their errand done, their impulse spent,
  Chained by an alien element,
  With sails unset they idly lie,
  Though morning beckons brave and nigh;
  Like wounded birds, their flight denied,
  They lie, and long and wait the tide.

  About their keels, within the net
  Of tough grass fibres green and wet,
  A myriad thirsty creatures, pent
  In sorrowful imprisonment,
  Await the beat, distinct and sweet,
  Of the white waves' returning feet.
  My soul their vigil joins, and shares
  A nobler discontent than theirs;
  Athirst like them, I patiently
  Sit listening beside the sea,
  And still the waters outward glide:
  When is the turning of the tide?

  Come, pulse of God; come, heavenly thrill!
  We wait thy coming,and we will.
  The world is vast, and very far
  Its utmost verge and boundaries are;
  But thou hast kept thy word to-day
  In India and in dim Cathay,
  And the same mighty care shall reach
  Each humblest rock-pool of this beach.
  The gasping fish, the stranded keel,
  This dull dry soul of mine, shall feel
  Thy freshening touch, and, satisfied,
  Shall drink the fulness of the tide.

  All night the thirsty beach has listening lain,
     With patience dumb,
  Counting the slow, sad moments of her pain;
     Now morn has come,
  And with the morn the punctual tide again.

  I hear the white battalions down the bay
     Charge with a cheer;
  The sun's gold lances prick them on their way,
     They plunge, they rear,
  Foam-plumed and snowy-pennoned, they are here!

  The roused shore, her bright hair backward blown,
     Stands on the verge
  And waves a smiling welcome, beckoning on
     The flying surge,
  While round her feet, like doves, the billows crowd and urge.

  Her glad lips quaff the salt, familiar wine;
     Her spent urns fill;
  All hungering creatures know the sound, the sign,
     Quiver and thrill,
  With glad expectance crowd and banquet at their will.

  I, too, the rapt contentment join and share;
     My tide is full;
  There is new happiness in earth, in air:
     All beautiful
  And fresh the world but now so bare and dull.

  But while we raise the cup of bliss so high,
     Thus satisfied,
  Another shore beneath a sad, far sky
     Waiteth her tide,
  And thirsts with sad complainings still denied.

  On earth's remotest bound she sits and waits
     In doubt and pain;
  Our joy is signal for her sad estates;
     Like dull refrain
  Marring our song, her sighings rise in vain.

  To each his turnthe ebb-tide and the flood,
     The less, the more
  God metes his portions justly out, I know;
     But still before
  My mind forever floats that pale and grieving shore.

  She has been just a year in Heaven.
  Unmarked by white moon or gold sun,
  By stroke of clock or clang of bell,
  Or shadow lengthening on the way,
  In the full noon and perfect day,
  In Safety's very citadel,
  The happy hours have sped, have run;
  And, rapt in peace, all pain forgot,
  She whom we love, her white soul shriven,
  Smiles at the thought and wonders not.

  We have been just a year alone,
  A year whose calendar is sighs,
  And dull, perpetual wishfulness,
  And smiles, each covert for a tear,
  And wandering thoughts, half there, half here,
  And weariful attempts to guess
  The secret of the hiding skies,
  The soft, inexorable blue,
  With gleaming hints of glory sown,
  And Heaven behind, just shining through.

  So sweet, so sad, so swift, so slow,
  So full of eager growth and light,
  So full of pain which blindly grows,
  So full of thoughts which either way
  Have passed and crossed and touched each day,
  To us a thorn, to her a rose;
  The year so black, the year so white,
  Like rivers twain their course have run;
  The earthly stream we trace and know,
  But who shall paint the heavenly one?

  A year! We gather up our powers,
  Our lamps we consecrate and trim;
  Open all windows to the day,
  And welcome every heavenly air.
  We will press forward and will bear,
  Having this word to cheer the way:
  She, storm-tossed once, is safe with Him,
  Healed, comforted, content, forgiven;
  And while we count these heavy hours
  Has been a year,a year in Heaven.

  Each day upon the yellow Nile, 'tis said.
  Joseph, the youthful ruler, cast forth wheat,
  That haply, floating to his father's feet,
  The sad old father, who believed him dead,
  It might be sign in Egypt there was bread;
  And thus the patriarch, past the desert sands
  And scant oasis fringed with thirsty green,
  Be lured toward the love that yearned unseen.
  So, flung and scatteredah! by what dear hands?
  On the swift-rushing and invisible tide,
  Small tokens drift adown from far, fair lands,