LXX SIC ITUR As, at a railway junction, men Meet never! Ah, much more as they Though moving other mates between, Yet seldom, surely, shall there lack Where common dangers each attend, Whether he then shall cross to thee, Each other, yet again shall meet. A. H. Clough LXXI NEXT OF KIN The shadows gather round me, while you are in the sun: My day is almost ended, but yours is just begun : The winds are singing to us both and the streams are singing still, And they fill your heart with music, but mine they cannot fill. Your home is built in sunlight, mine in another day: Your home is close at hand, sweet friend, but mine is far away: Your bark is in the haven where you fain would be: sea. You, white as dove or lily or spirit of the light: I, stain'd and cold and glad to hide in the cold dark night : You, joy to many a loving heart and light to many eyes: I, lonely in the knowledge earth is full of vanities. Yet when your day is over, as mine is nearly done, And when your race is finish'd, as mine is almost run, You, like me, shall cross your hands and bow your graceful head: Yea, we twain shall sleep together in an equal bed. C. G. Rossetti LXXII THE SPECTRE OF THE PAST On the great day of my life- 74 Midnight stood upon the clock, And the street sound ceased to rise; Suddenly, and with no knock, Came that Man before my eyes: Yet he seem'd not anywise My heart to surprise, And he sat down to abide At my fireside. my But he stirr'd within heart And strange visions seem'd to start Yea, from the most distant haze Of forgotten ways: And he look'd on me the while But my heart seem'd well to know That his face the semblance had Of my own face long ago Ere the years had made it sad, To my heart he seem'd in truth Then he named me by a name Long since unfamiliar grown, That my childhood's ears had known ; In a sadder tone Coming from the happy years And, as though he nothing knew As a piteous thing Back upon my heart again, 'Do you still remember the winding street In the gray old village?' he seem'd to say; 'And the long school days that the sun made sweet And the thought of the flowers from far away? And the faces of friends whom you used to meet -Ay, the face of this one or of that?' he said, And do you remember the far green hills; Or the long straight path by the side of the stream; Or follow each change of your childish wills Then, alas, from right weeping I could not refrain, And I thought of a day in a far lost Spring, Who breathed in the song that the wild birds sing Who undid a strange spell in the world as it were, Who set wide sweet whispers abroad in the air,— Made a presence I could not see. 'O for what have you wander'd so far-so long?' Said the voice that was e'en as my voice of old: 'O for what have you done to the Past such wrong? Was there no fair dream on your own threshold? In your childhood's home was there no fresh song? -Was your heart then all so cold? Why, at length, are you weary, and lone and sad, But for casting away all the good that you had With the peace that was yours of old? 'Have you wholly forgotten the words you said, When you stood by a certain mound of earth, When you vow'd with your heart that that place you made The last burial-place for your love and your mirth, For the pure past blisses you therein laid Were surely your whole life's worth?— O, the angels who deck the lone graves with their tears Have cared for this, morning and evening, for years, But of yours there has been long dearth: In the pure pale sheen of a hallow'd night, You may see that the dews and the stars' strange light Are loving that grave the best ; But, perhaps, if you went in the clear noon-day, After so many years you might scarce find the way Ere you tired indeed of the quest : 'For the path that leads to it is almost lost; And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blue Have grown up there and gather'd for years, and tost Bitter germs all around them to grow up too; But alas! for these words to my heart he sent, For I knew it was Marguerite's grave that he meant, And I felt that the words were true. A. O'Shaughnessy |