Marian
The clouds fly fast across the moon;
The winds beat on my bosom bare;
My lover will be with me soon,
And I shall little care.
O little shall I care! for he
Will take me nestling to his breast
So broad & warm! — and I shall be
A bird in its own nest.
Will he not start to see me pale
And shuddering, for the love of him?
Now the moon hides, and the cold gale
Moans o'er the meadows dim.
There is a burden in that sound
I cannot bear to sit and hear,
So mournfully the hollow ground
Answers its moaning drear.
And up the meadow path it goes,
And wrestles with the rooted briar,
As if it storm'd with many throes
Some stubborn strong desire:
Some hope whose heart is at the root,
And will not, will not, be uptorn;
O could I know that his dear foot
Were coming — me forlorn!
Know it, and know that each deep breath
That blows upon my cheek and hair,
And taunts me in this place of death,
Had touch'd him darkly there!
My lover! touch! his mouth & throat,
His neck that I would fret & fawn
To clasp, and all I used to dote
To kiss at early dawn.
To kiss when that gray glimmer woke
The old reproachful happy room;
And on my wandering slumber broke
As with an eye of doom.
But I would turn to where he lay;
His head upon his dreaming arm,
His proud eyes closed, his hair astray,
His lips as in a charm; —
Smiling — and I would wake him — hark!
— No, no! not he — not he! how fast
The clouds fly on! and the wild dark
Seems thickening with the blast.
And if he come not, let the rains
Drown all! — O lover, lover, take
The poor child who has had such pains
Unsighing for thy sake.
The poor young child! — I seem to hear
My mother's words: — how poor to me
Was pity when her breast was near,
Now nothing pities me!
Now that I am a mother too:
No, no! have been! have been! have been!
Waste pity on my head I strew
Like leaves that once were green. —
My little child lies just below,
I sit upon its little grave:
My tiny babe that suffer'd so,
So patient & so brave!
'Twas hard to lose it from my sight,
And hush its merry prattle, too!
With nothing near it day and night,
But this old silent yew.
And here, they said, he would not heed
Or in an earthly father joy,
I know, I know my babe must need
His love — my boy! my boy!
He needs it now! he cannot have
An infant's peace without it! Come!
Oh! it bids to its little grave
To be a father, come!
Some doubt, who see me nightly here,
That he will ever come again:
They say, " Cry not, poor girl! take cheer!
Go home! sleep! hope is vain!"
Ah yes! when hope is vain, go sleep!
I should be mad as they assert:
Not tho' I never more can weep
Or feel an earthly hurt.
Not tho' I hang upon his name
And cherish it, who did me ill.
Like a church bride I speak no blame,
And bend me to his will.
That madness only can forget
An evil such as mine, they think.
And I feel drowning in a net
That will not let me sink.
But every touch of it is love;
And every clutching tangle thrown,
Seems all the bliss that swims above,
Even while it drags me down.
Full of sweet life; of him; of old
Remembrances of him so sweet: —
Hark now! — my name swells up the wold
I hear a noise of feet: —
That wind among the wither'd leaves
Forever will my fancy baulk
With " Marian! Marian! " deceives,
And mocks his well-known walk.
On nights like this it frets me most;
But when in frost I hold my tryst,
The silence like a glittering ghost
Stares at me thro' the mist.
Chilling my bones, and to my back
Piercing as tho' with sickening steel:
I sit and hear the hard earth crack,
And see the dews congeal.
— Like a church bride! — who said it? — bride?
O sweet, sweet name! God loves it! men
Revere it: O with what a pride
She walks who wears it, then!
And dares to let ungrateful shame
That is but deeper pride, play o'er
Her lovely marriage face aflame
While stepping thro' the door;
The door of that old dusky porch
That looks so happy in the morn:
The blessing of the dreadful church
Her shield from pain & scorn.
And with her finger ring'd, her wrist
Claspt close, her lover leads her in
To kiss her as I have been kiss'd
And cannot think it sin.
To kiss her in sweet warmth; while I
Without my lover sit and moan,
And no one Angel in the sky
To make me not alone.
The winds beat on my bosom bare;
My lover will be with me soon,
And I shall little care.
O little shall I care! for he
Will take me nestling to his breast
So broad & warm! — and I shall be
A bird in its own nest.
Will he not start to see me pale
And shuddering, for the love of him?
Now the moon hides, and the cold gale
Moans o'er the meadows dim.
There is a burden in that sound
I cannot bear to sit and hear,
So mournfully the hollow ground
Answers its moaning drear.
And up the meadow path it goes,
And wrestles with the rooted briar,
As if it storm'd with many throes
Some stubborn strong desire:
Some hope whose heart is at the root,
And will not, will not, be uptorn;
O could I know that his dear foot
Were coming — me forlorn!
Know it, and know that each deep breath
That blows upon my cheek and hair,
And taunts me in this place of death,
Had touch'd him darkly there!
My lover! touch! his mouth & throat,
His neck that I would fret & fawn
To clasp, and all I used to dote
To kiss at early dawn.
To kiss when that gray glimmer woke
The old reproachful happy room;
And on my wandering slumber broke
As with an eye of doom.
But I would turn to where he lay;
His head upon his dreaming arm,
His proud eyes closed, his hair astray,
His lips as in a charm; —
Smiling — and I would wake him — hark!
— No, no! not he — not he! how fast
The clouds fly on! and the wild dark
Seems thickening with the blast.
And if he come not, let the rains
Drown all! — O lover, lover, take
The poor child who has had such pains
Unsighing for thy sake.
The poor young child! — I seem to hear
My mother's words: — how poor to me
Was pity when her breast was near,
Now nothing pities me!
Now that I am a mother too:
No, no! have been! have been! have been!
Waste pity on my head I strew
Like leaves that once were green. —
My little child lies just below,
I sit upon its little grave:
My tiny babe that suffer'd so,
So patient & so brave!
'Twas hard to lose it from my sight,
And hush its merry prattle, too!
With nothing near it day and night,
But this old silent yew.
And here, they said, he would not heed
Or in an earthly father joy,
I know, I know my babe must need
His love — my boy! my boy!
He needs it now! he cannot have
An infant's peace without it! Come!
Oh! it bids to its little grave
To be a father, come!
Some doubt, who see me nightly here,
That he will ever come again:
They say, " Cry not, poor girl! take cheer!
Go home! sleep! hope is vain!"
Ah yes! when hope is vain, go sleep!
I should be mad as they assert:
Not tho' I never more can weep
Or feel an earthly hurt.
Not tho' I hang upon his name
And cherish it, who did me ill.
Like a church bride I speak no blame,
And bend me to his will.
That madness only can forget
An evil such as mine, they think.
And I feel drowning in a net
That will not let me sink.
But every touch of it is love;
And every clutching tangle thrown,
Seems all the bliss that swims above,
Even while it drags me down.
Full of sweet life; of him; of old
Remembrances of him so sweet: —
Hark now! — my name swells up the wold
I hear a noise of feet: —
That wind among the wither'd leaves
Forever will my fancy baulk
With " Marian! Marian! " deceives,
And mocks his well-known walk.
On nights like this it frets me most;
But when in frost I hold my tryst,
The silence like a glittering ghost
Stares at me thro' the mist.
Chilling my bones, and to my back
Piercing as tho' with sickening steel:
I sit and hear the hard earth crack,
And see the dews congeal.
— Like a church bride! — who said it? — bride?
O sweet, sweet name! God loves it! men
Revere it: O with what a pride
She walks who wears it, then!
And dares to let ungrateful shame
That is but deeper pride, play o'er
Her lovely marriage face aflame
While stepping thro' the door;
The door of that old dusky porch
That looks so happy in the morn:
The blessing of the dreadful church
Her shield from pain & scorn.
And with her finger ring'd, her wrist
Claspt close, her lover leads her in
To kiss her as I have been kiss'd
And cannot think it sin.
To kiss her in sweet warmth; while I
Without my lover sit and moan,
And no one Angel in the sky
To make me not alone.
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