BENEATH the pale skies, dreaming Vague dreams of stars and night; Across the small lake gleaming With last long rays of light— My boat went speeding faster Than the brown bird that passed her— My boat went speeding faster Than the swift swallow's flight. Across the gray lake floating— O Heart, have you forgot That spot beneath the willows Which was our trysting-spot? Two feet that came to meet me, Two hands out-stretched to greet me, Low whispers to repeat me Words cherished, unforgot. The tangled vines held roses— Pale buds with folded leaf— Set deep in thorns, like pleasures Born from a bed of grief, And slender boughs held showers Of snow from Winter hours, Which Spring's breath kissed to flowers, As fleeting snowflakes brief. O Heart, do you remember How close the violets grew? How drooping willows touched us, And gold sun-words pierced through? I talked, as men do ever, Of loves that falter never, Of lives no hand can sever, Of hearts forever true. I talked, as men do ever, Of all that was to be. God filled my folded flowers With thorns I could not see. Dear as a cherished token, Fleet as a love-word spoken, My dreams lie shattered, broken, In Death's eternal sea. ... Beneath the pale skies fading To mournful twilight gray, My little boat goes floating, Alas! the same old way. Only the gay birds fleeting, And whisp'ring breezes meeting, And winds and waters greeting, Have left me sad to-day. Our trysting-spot is empty Under-the willow-tree; No tender blue eyes watch me, No dear lips smile at me; And as the breeze goes sighing, The mellow sunlight, dying, Falls on a small grave lying Beneath a cypress-tree. Dumb lips that will not answer, Blue eyes fast shut in sleep; And if I left her, certes, She would not even weep. The dreams of days departed Have faded whence they started, And I stand broken-hearted— Her dear lips smile in sleep. I am weary of all life's pleasures For one lost pleasure's sake. Pale buds of dead desire, Sharp thorns that dead flow'rs make, Have strewn my life with sorrow; To-morrow and to-morrow Their sad-eyed grief will borrow For one dead maiden's sake. Each day my boat goes thither, Where flowers are blowing yet, Where suns will shine and shimmer, Although my eyes are wet. My life is all November— Bleak skies of chill December. ... O Heart, must thou remember? 'Twere better to forget. |