Three Sunsets and Other Poems — Stolen Waters

The light was faint, and soft the air That breathed around the place;

And she was lithe, and tall, and fair, And with a wayward grace Her queenly head she bare.

With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye, She met me on the way: My spirit owned the witchery Within her smile that lay: I followed her, I knew not why.

The trees were thick with many a fruit, The grass with many a flower: My soul was dead, my tongue was mute, In that accursed hour.

And, in my dream, with silvery voice, She said, or seemed to say, "Youth is the season to rejoice--" I could not choose but stay: I could not say her nay.

She plucked a branch above her head, With rarest fruitage laden: "Drink of the juice, Sir Knight," she said: "'Tis good for knight and maiden."

Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace-- Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed-- The mocking smile upon her face, The mocking voice of greed!

I drank the juice; and straightway felt A fire within my brain: My soul within me seemed to melt In sweet delirious pain.

"Sweet is the stolen draught," she said: "Hath sweetness stint or measure?

Pleasant the secret hoard of bread: What bars us from our pleasure?"

"Yea, take we pleasure while we may," I heard myself replying.

In the red sunset, far away, My happier life was dying: My heart was sad, my voice was gay.

And unawares, I knew not how, I kissed her dainty finger-tips, I kissed her on the lily brow, I kissed her on the false, false lips-- That burning kiss, I feel it now!

"True love gives true love of the best: Then take," I cried, "my heart to thee!"

The very heart from out my breast I plucked, I gave it willingly: Her very heart she gave to me-- Then died the glory from the west.

In the gray light I saw her face, And it was withered, old, and gray;

The flowers were fading in their place, Were fading with the fading day.

Forth from her, like a hunted deer, Through all that ghastly night I fled, And still behind me seemed to hear Her fierce unflagging tread;

And scarce drew breath for fear.

Yet marked I well how strangely seemed The heart within my breast to sleep: Silent it lay, or so I dreamed, With never a throb or leap.

For hers was now my heart, she said, The heart that once had been mine own: And in my breast I bore instead A cold, cold heart of stone.

So grew the morning overhead.

The sun shot downward through the trees His old familiar flame: All ancient sounds upon the breeze From copse and meadow came-- But I was not the same.

They call me mad: I smile, I weep, Uncaring how or why: Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep, What better than to die?

So that the grave be dark and deep.

To die!

To die?

And yet, methinks, I drink of life, to-day, Deep as the thirsty traveler drinks Of fountain by the way: My voice is sad, my heart is gay.

When yestereve was on the wane, I heard a clear voice singing So sweetly that, like summer-rain, My happy tears came springing: My human heart returned again.

_"A rosy child, Sitting and singing, in a garden fair, The joy of hearing, seeing, The simple joy of being-- Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair That ripples free and wild.

"A sweet pale child-- Wearily looking to the purple West-- Waiting the great For-ever That suddenly shall sever The cruel chains that hold her from her rest-- By earth-joys unbeguiled.

"An angel-child-- Gazing with living eyes on a dead face: The mortal form forsaken, That none may now awaken, That lieth painless, moveless in her place, As though in death she smiled!

"Be as a child-- So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath-- So shalt thou wait thy dying, In holy transport lying-- So pass rejoicing through the gate of death, In garment undefiled."

_ Then call me what they will, I know That now my soul is glad: If this be madness, better so, Far better to be mad, Weeping or smiling as I go.

For if I weep, it is that now I see how deep a loss is mine, And feel how brightly round my brow The coronal might shine, Had I but kept mine early vow: And if I smile, it is that now I see the promise of the years-- The garland waiting for my brow, That must be won with tears, With pain--with death--I care not how.

_May 9, 1862. _ [Illustration]