Love In Winter
A GENRE PICTURE .
I.
" O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers."
It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing
With her shrill song of youth;
The white keys sob as fast she tries
Each shrill and shrieking scale:
" O love is like the roses!" cries
This muslin'd nightingale. . . .
In a dark corner dozing
I close my eyes and ears,
And call up, while reposing,
A glimpse from other years;
A genre-picture, quaint and Dutch,
I see from this dark seat, —
'Tis full of human brightness, such
As makes remembrance sweet.
II.
Flat leagues of endless meadows
[In Holland lies the scene],
Where many pollard-shadows
O'er nut-brown ditches lean;
Grey clouds above that dimly break,
Mists that pale sunbeams stripe,
With groups of steaming cattle, make
A landscape " after Cuyp."
A windmill, and below it
A cottage near a road,
Where some meek pastoral poet
Might make a glad abode;
A cottage with a garden, where
Prim squares of pansies grow,
And sitting on a garden-chair,
A Dame with locks of snow.
In trim black truss'd and bodiced,
With petticoat of red,
And on her bosom modest
A kerchief white bespread.
Alas! the breast that heaves below
Is shrivell'd now and thin,
Tho' vestal thoughts as white as snow
Still palpitate within.
Her hands are mitten'd nicely,
And folded on her knee;
Her lips, that meet precisely,
Are moving quietly,
She listens while the dreamy bells
O'er the dark flats intone —
Now come, now gone, in dying swells
The Sabbath sounds are blown.
Her cheek a withered rose is,
Her eye a violet dim;
Half in her chair she doses,
And hums a happy hymn.
But soft! what wonder makes her start
And lift her aged head,
While the faint flutterings of her heart
Just touch her cheek with red?
The latch clicks; thro' the gateway
An aged wight steps slow —
Then pauses, doffing straightway
His broad-brim'd gay chapeau!
Swallow-tail'd cot of blue so grand,
With buttons bright beside,
He wears, and in his trembling hand
A nosegay, ribbon-tied.
His thin old legs trip lightly
In breeches of nankeen,
His face is shining brightly,
So rosy, fresh, and clean —
Wrinkled he is and old and plain,
With locks of golden-grey,
And leaning on a tassell'd cane
He gladly comes this way.
Oh, skylark, singing over
The silent mill hard by,
To this so happy lover
Sing out with summer cry!
He hears thee, tho' his blood is cold,
She hears, tho' deaf and weak;
She stands to greet him, as of old,
A blush upon her cheek.
In spring-time they were parted
By some sad wind of woe;
Forlorn and broken-hearted
Each faltered, long ago;
They sunder'd, — half a century
Each took the path of pain —
He lived a bachelor, and she
Was never woo'd again!
But when the summer ended,
When autumn, too, was dead,
When every vision splendid
Of youth and hope was fled,
Again these two came face to face
As in the long ago —
They met within a sunless place
In the season of the snow.
" O love is like the roses,
Love comes and love must flee!
Before the summer closes
Love's rapture and love's glee!"
O peace! for in the garden there
He bows in raiment gay;
Doffs hat, and with a courtly air
Presents his fond bouquet.
One day in every sever,
While church-bells softly ring,
The happy, silent Heaven
Beholds the self-same thing:
The gay old boy within the gate,
With ribbons at his knee! —
" When winter comes, is love too late?"
O Cupid, look and see!
O, talk not of love's rapture,
When youthful lovers kiss;
What mortal sight may capture
A scene more sweet than this?
Beside her now he sits and glows,
While prim she sits and proud, —
Then, spectacles upon his nose,
Reads the week's news aloud!
Pure, with no touch of passion,
True, with no tinge of pain!
Thus, in sweet Sabbath fashion,
They live their loves again.
She sees in him a happy boy —
Swift, agile, amorous-eyed;
He sees in her his own heart's joy —
Youth, Hope, Love, vivified!
Content there he sits smoking
His long Dutch pipe of wood:
Gossiping oft and joking,
As a gay lover should.
And oft, while there in company
They smile for Love's sweet sake,
Her snuff-box black she hands, and he
A grave, deep pinch doth take!
There, gravely juvenescent,
In sober Sabbath joy,
Mingling the past and present,
They sit, a maid and boy!
" O love is like the roses! " — No!
Thou foolish singer, cease!
Love finds the fireside 'mid the snow,
And smokes the pipe of peace!
I.
" O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers."
It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing
With her shrill song of youth;
The white keys sob as fast she tries
Each shrill and shrieking scale:
" O love is like the roses!" cries
This muslin'd nightingale. . . .
In a dark corner dozing
I close my eyes and ears,
And call up, while reposing,
A glimpse from other years;
A genre-picture, quaint and Dutch,
I see from this dark seat, —
'Tis full of human brightness, such
As makes remembrance sweet.
II.
Flat leagues of endless meadows
[In Holland lies the scene],
Where many pollard-shadows
O'er nut-brown ditches lean;
Grey clouds above that dimly break,
Mists that pale sunbeams stripe,
With groups of steaming cattle, make
A landscape " after Cuyp."
A windmill, and below it
A cottage near a road,
Where some meek pastoral poet
Might make a glad abode;
A cottage with a garden, where
Prim squares of pansies grow,
And sitting on a garden-chair,
A Dame with locks of snow.
In trim black truss'd and bodiced,
With petticoat of red,
And on her bosom modest
A kerchief white bespread.
Alas! the breast that heaves below
Is shrivell'd now and thin,
Tho' vestal thoughts as white as snow
Still palpitate within.
Her hands are mitten'd nicely,
And folded on her knee;
Her lips, that meet precisely,
Are moving quietly,
She listens while the dreamy bells
O'er the dark flats intone —
Now come, now gone, in dying swells
The Sabbath sounds are blown.
Her cheek a withered rose is,
Her eye a violet dim;
Half in her chair she doses,
And hums a happy hymn.
But soft! what wonder makes her start
And lift her aged head,
While the faint flutterings of her heart
Just touch her cheek with red?
The latch clicks; thro' the gateway
An aged wight steps slow —
Then pauses, doffing straightway
His broad-brim'd gay chapeau!
Swallow-tail'd cot of blue so grand,
With buttons bright beside,
He wears, and in his trembling hand
A nosegay, ribbon-tied.
His thin old legs trip lightly
In breeches of nankeen,
His face is shining brightly,
So rosy, fresh, and clean —
Wrinkled he is and old and plain,
With locks of golden-grey,
And leaning on a tassell'd cane
He gladly comes this way.
Oh, skylark, singing over
The silent mill hard by,
To this so happy lover
Sing out with summer cry!
He hears thee, tho' his blood is cold,
She hears, tho' deaf and weak;
She stands to greet him, as of old,
A blush upon her cheek.
In spring-time they were parted
By some sad wind of woe;
Forlorn and broken-hearted
Each faltered, long ago;
They sunder'd, — half a century
Each took the path of pain —
He lived a bachelor, and she
Was never woo'd again!
But when the summer ended,
When autumn, too, was dead,
When every vision splendid
Of youth and hope was fled,
Again these two came face to face
As in the long ago —
They met within a sunless place
In the season of the snow.
" O love is like the roses,
Love comes and love must flee!
Before the summer closes
Love's rapture and love's glee!"
O peace! for in the garden there
He bows in raiment gay;
Doffs hat, and with a courtly air
Presents his fond bouquet.
One day in every sever,
While church-bells softly ring,
The happy, silent Heaven
Beholds the self-same thing:
The gay old boy within the gate,
With ribbons at his knee! —
" When winter comes, is love too late?"
O Cupid, look and see!
O, talk not of love's rapture,
When youthful lovers kiss;
What mortal sight may capture
A scene more sweet than this?
Beside her now he sits and glows,
While prim she sits and proud, —
Then, spectacles upon his nose,
Reads the week's news aloud!
Pure, with no touch of passion,
True, with no tinge of pain!
Thus, in sweet Sabbath fashion,
They live their loves again.
She sees in him a happy boy —
Swift, agile, amorous-eyed;
He sees in her his own heart's joy —
Youth, Hope, Love, vivified!
Content there he sits smoking
His long Dutch pipe of wood:
Gossiping oft and joking,
As a gay lover should.
And oft, while there in company
They smile for Love's sweet sake,
Her snuff-box black she hands, and he
A grave, deep pinch doth take!
There, gravely juvenescent,
In sober Sabbath joy,
Mingling the past and present,
They sit, a maid and boy!
" O love is like the roses! " — No!
Thou foolish singer, cease!
Love finds the fireside 'mid the snow,
And smokes the pipe of peace!
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