  I Without a moon when night comes on There is a sighing in its trees As of sad lips that no one sees; And the far-dwindling forest, large Beyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawn Into its shadows. Faint and wan, By the wistariaed portico Stealing, I go Through gardens where the weeds are rank: Where, here and there, in clump and bank, SpirÆas rise, whose dotted blooms Seem clustered starlight; and the four Syringas sweet heap, powdered o'er, Thin flower-beakers of perfumes; And the dead flowering-almond tree, That once was pink as her young cheek, Now withered leans within the glooms.— Why must I walk here? seek and seek Her, long since gone?—Still bower on bower The roses climb in blushing flower.— Ah, 'mid the roses could I see Her eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers, Or like the dew that lies for hours Within their hearts, then it might be I might find comfort here, although Wistful, as if reproaching me, Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know. II When midnight comes it brings a moon: A scent is strewn Of honey and wild-thorns broadcast Beneath the stars. When I have passed Under dark cedars, solemn pines, Through dodder-drowned petunias, Corn-flower and the columbine, To where azaleas, choked with grass, And peonies, like great wisps, shine, I reach banked honeysuckle vines, Piled deep and trammeled with the gourd And morning-glory—one wild hoard Of rich aroma—where the seat, The rustic bench, where oft we sat,— Now warped and old with rain and heat,— Still stands upon its mossy mat: And here I rest; and then—a word I seem to hear; A soft word whispered in my ear; Her voice it seems; no thing is near; I look around:—I have but heard The plaintive note of some lost bird Trickle through night,—awakened where, 'Neath its thick lair of twisted twigs, The jarring and incessant grigs Hum:—dream-drugged so, the haunted air Makes all my soul as heavy as Dew-poppied grass. III Once when the moon rose, fair and full,— Like some sea-seen Hesperian pool, A splash of gold through tangling trees,— Or like the Island beautiful Of Avalon in haunted seas,— There came a sighing in the trees As of sad lips; there was no breeze, And yet sad sighings shook the trees. And when, all in a mystic space, Her orb swam, amiable white, Right in that shattered casement, by The broken porch the creepers lace, Born of a moonbeam and a sigh, I saw her face, Pale through a mist of tears; so slight, So immaterial, ah me! In pensiveness, and vanished grace, 'Twas like an olden melody. IV I know long-angled on its floors, Where windows face the anxious east, The moonshine pours White squares of glitter and, at least, Gives glimmer to its whispering halls: Its corridors, Sleep-tapestried, are guled with bars Of moonlight: by its wasted walls Crouch shadows: and,—where streaked dusts lay Their undisturbed, deep gray Upon its stairs,—dim, vision-footed, glide Faint gossamer gleams, like visible sighs, As to and fro, athwart the skies,— Wind-swung against the moon outside,— The twisted branches sway Of one great tree; I stand below, And listen now, Hearing a murmur come and go Through its gnarled boughs; remembering how Shady this chestnut made her room, And sweet, in June, with plumes of bloom; And how the broad and gusty flues Of the old house sang when the rain let loose Its winds, and each flue seemed a hoarse, Sonorous throat, filled with the storm's wild boom, And growled carousal; goblin tunes The hylas pipe to rainy moons Of March; or, in the afternoons Of summer, singing in their course,— Where blossoms drip,—all wet of back,— The crickets drone in avenues Of locusts leading to the gate. And in the dark here where I wait Meseems I hear the silence creep And crepitate From hall to hall; as one in sleep I hear, yet hear not; feel that there Her soul walks, waking on each stair Strange echoes; and the stealthy crack Of old and warping floors: I seem To follow her; and in a dream To see, yet see not; in the black That drapes each room, my mind informs With shapes, that hide behind each door And fling from closets phantom arms. V I see her face, as once before, Bewildered with its terror, pressed To the dark, polished floor; distressed, Clasped in her blind and covering hands; So desolate with anguish, wrenched With wild remorse, no man could see, Could see and turn away like me, No man that sees and understands Love and its mortal agony. Again, like some automaton, Part of that ghostly tragedy, Myself I see, the fool who fled, Who sneered and fled. And then again Came stealing back. Again, with blenched And bending face I stand, and clenched And icy hands, and staring eyes, Looking upon her face, as wan As water; eyes all wide with pain; Cramped to dilation, packed with loss: Again I seem to lean across The years, and hear my heart's deep groan Above the young gold of her head, Above that huddled heap alone,— Her, white and dead. |
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