Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
you will tell the way to tread.
Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to Arcady.
And where away lies Arcady,
And how long yet may the journey be?
Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know—
Across the clover and the snow-
Across the frost, across the flowers-
Through summer seconds and winter hours.
I've trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may be;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.
But how shall I do who cannot sing?
I was wont to sing, once on a time-
There is never an echo now to ring
Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.
'T is strange you cannot sing (quoth he),
The folk all sing in Arcady.
But how may he find Arcady
Who hath nor youth nor melody?
What, know you not, old man (quoth he)—
Your hair is white, your face is wise-
That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare—
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly's dress-
No fame that wit could ever win;
But only Love may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.
Ah, woe is me, through all my days
Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
And fame and name, and great men's praise,
But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.
There was a time, when life was new-
But far away, and half forgot—
I only know her eyes were blue;
But Love-I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.
Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he),
My way's for Love and Arcady.
But you, you fare alone, like me;
The gray is likewise in your hair.
What love have you to lead you there,
To Arcady, to Arcady?
Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;
My true companion's Memory.
With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound
My song goes straight to one who stands-
Her face all gladdening at the sound-
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.
My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry.
HORT and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
Our poor little love lying cold.
Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it?
Nor the joys and pains of it told?
How fair was its face in the morning,
How close its caresses at noon,
How its evening grew chill without warning,
Unpleasantly soon!
I can't say just how we began it—
In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh;
Fate took but an instant to plan it;
It needs but a moment to die.
Yet-remember that first conversation,
When the flowers you had dropped at your feet
I restored. The familiar quotation
Was-"Sweets to the sweet.'
Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted
My senses a whole season through.
If there was one soft charm that you
The violets lent it to you.
I whispered you, life was but lonely:
A cue which you graciously took;
And your eyes learned a look for me only-
A very nice look.
And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, With a sweetly particular touch;
You said many things in a sigh, and
Made a look express wondrously much.
We smiled for the mere sake of smiling,
And laughed for no reason but fun;
Irrational joys; but beguiling-
And all that is done!
We were idle, and played for a moment
At a game that now neither will press:
I cared not to find out what "No" meant;
Nor your lips to grow yielding with "Yes,"
Love is done with and dead; if there lingers
A faint and indefinite ghost,
It is laid with this kiss on your fingers-
A jest at the most.
'Tis a commonplace, stale situation,
Now the curtain comes down from above
On the end of our little flirtation-
A travesty romance for Love,
If he climbed in disguise to your lattice,
Fell dead of the first kisses' pain:
But one thing is left us now; that is-
Begin it again.
AINT Valentine, Saint Valentine!
I love a maid of New York town,
And every day, on my homeward way, She walks the Avenue down.
At five o'clock, dear Saint, she goes
Tripping down Murray Hill,
And the hands of the clock in the old brick spire Stand still, stand still, stand still!
Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine!
Oh, could you know how fair a maidSo trim of dress, and so gold of tress, You'd know why I'm afraid.
|