Classic Poem

AT OXFORD. SIX WEEKS LATER .

Six weeks ago! How long it seems
Since through the quiet London square
I walked, bereft of hopes and dreams,
And felt my whole life leafless, bare,
Barren for ever. Now to-day
The earth is gladdened. It is May.

I walk beside the river's marge;
I see the grey old Oxford towers;
Watch flashing skiff, and glittering barge,
And, on the banks, the same old flowers.
Town, river, fields — all are the same:
My only sameness is my name.

I feel as if I bore within
My frame a corpse. With living eyes
I see the quick foam-bubbles spin
Adown the weir; I see the skies;
I see the flowers; I see the oars
Sweep by the old thyme-scented shores.

And yet I know that I am dead
And that the horror of despair
Grips all my heart ... They must be wed
By now — and does he find her fair?
And does he twine with tender hands
The sweet long loosened brown hair-bands?

Was last night — yes? — their wedding night,
Or will it be to-night? Will he
Win from her lips unknown delight
And find her sweet exceedingly?
So soft to touch? so good to kiss?
And was my darling born for this?

And was I born to watch the oars
Flash by the thyme-sweet Isis' banks,
To pace these green sun-lighted shores,
To watch the tall reeds' dark-green ranks,
While, underneath the May-stars bright,
Such horror may take place to-night?

The days pass on. I hate this place.
I hate the country green and fair:
I hate the bright swift boats that race;
I hate the pure sweet-smelling air;
I hate the river broad and blue;
I hate these trees the sun gleams through.

I'll back to London! There, at least
I shall feel nearer to the past:
The distance will have then decreased
Between me and where I saw her last.
I shall be happier near the spot
Where she so loved, yet loved me not.

London! I died in town in March,
And I'll revisit town in May.
The flower-beds near the Marble Arch,
With hyacinths or tulips gay,
Are fairer than these country meads
Wherethrough the blue old Isis speeds.

I shall be near the house wherein
I saw her last; saw those strange eyes,
In which I fancied love had been, —
In which I saw the tear-drops rise.
I'll turn once more that old sad page
Of life, and make my pilgrimage.