  The moonbeams on the hollies glow Pale where she left me; and the snow Lies bleak in moonshine on the graves, Ribbed with each gust that shakes and waves Ancestral cedars by her tomb.... She lay so beautiful in death, My Gloramone,—whose loveliness Death had not dimmed with all its doom,— That, urged by my divine distress, I sought her sepulchre: the gloom, The iciness that takes the breath, The sense of fear, were not too strong To keep me from beholding long. I stole into its sorrow; burst, With what I know was hand accursed, Its seal, the gated silence of Her old armorial tomb: but love Had sighed sweet romance to my heart; And here, I thought, another part Our souls would play. I did not start When indistinctness of pale lips Breathed on my hair; faint finger-tips Fluttered their starlight on my brow; When on my eyes, I knew not whence, Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow, Within my heart, an aching sense Of vampire winning. And I heard Her name slow-syllabled—a word Of haunting harmony—and then Low-whispered, "Thou! at last, 'tis thou!" And sighs of shadowy lips again. How madly strange that this should be! For, had she loved me here on Earth, It had not then been marvelous That she should now remember me, Returning love for love, though worth Less, yes, far less to both of us. And so I wondered, listening there: How was it that her soul was brought So near to mine now, whom in life She hated so? And everywhere About my life I thought and thought And found no reason why her love Should now be mine. We were at strife Forever here; her hatred drove Me to despair: I cast my glove Into the frowning face of fate, And lost her. Yea, it was her hate That made her Appolonio's wife. Her hate! her lovely hate!—for of Her naught I found unlovely;—and I felt she did not understand My passion, and 'twere well to wait. And now I felt her presence near, I, full of life; yet knew no fear There in the sombre silence, mark. And it was dark, yes, deadly dark: But when I slowly drew away The pall, death modeled with her face,— From her fair form it fell and lay Rich in the dust,—the shrouded place Was glittering daggered by the spark Of one wild ruby at her throat, Red-arrowed as a star with throbs Of pulsing flame. And note on note The night seemed filled with tenuous sobs Of fire that flickered from that stone, That, lustrous, lay against her throat, Large as her eyes, and shadowy. And standing by the dead alone I marveled not that this should be. The essence of an hundred stars, Of fretful crimson, through and through Its bezels beat, when, bending down My hot lips pressed her mouth. And scars, Aurora-scarlet, veiny blue, Flame-hearted, blurred the midnight; and The vault rang; and I felt a hand Like fire in mine. And, lo, a frown Broke up her face as gently as The surface of a fountain's glass A zephyr moves, that jolts the grass Spilling its rain-drops. When this passed, Through song-soft slumber, binding fast, Slow smiles dreamed outward beautiful; And with each smile I heard the dull Deep music of her heart, and saw, As by some necromantic law, Faint tremblings of a lubric light Flush her white temples and her throat: And each long pulse was as a note, That, gathering, like a strong surprise With all of happiness, made sweet With dim carnation in wild wise The arch of her pale lips, and beat Like moonlight from her head to feet. I bent and kissed her once again: And with that kiss it seemed that pain, Which long had ached beneath her smile And eyelids, vanished. In a while I saw she breathed. Then, wondrous white, Fair as she was before she died, She rose upon the bier; a sight To marvel at, whose truth belied All fiction. Yet I saw her eyes Grow wide unto my kiss,—like skies Of starless dawn.—And all the fire Of that dark ruby at her throat Around her presence seemed to float, A mist of rose, wherein like light She moved, or music exquisite. What followed then I scarcely know: All I remember is, I caught Her hand; and from the tomb I brought Her beautiful: and o'er the snow, Where moonbeams on the hollies glow, I led her. But her feet no print Left of their nakedness, no dint, No faintest trace in frost. I thought, "The moonlight fills them with its glow, So soft they fall; or 'tis the snow Covers them o'er!—the tomb was black, And—this strong light blinds!"—Turning back My eyes met hers; and as I turned, Flashing centupled facets, burned That ruby at her throat; and I Studied its beauty for a while: How came it there, and when, and why? Who set it at her throat? Again, Was it a ruby?—Pondering, I stood and gazed. A far, strange smile Filled all her face, and as with pain I seemed to hear her speak, or sing, These words, that meant not anything, Yet more than any words may mean: "Thy blood it is," she said; then sighed: "See where thy heart's blood beateth! here Thy heart's blood, that my lips did drain In life; I live by still, unseen, Long as thy passion shall remain.— Canst thou behold and have no fear?— Yea, if I am not dead, 'tis thou!— Look how thy heart's blood flashes now!— Blood of my life and soul, beat on! Beat on! and fill my veins with dawn; And heat the heart of me, h |
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