Classic Poem

" THE blooms of May! the blooms of May!
The apple-orchards bright and gay!
The springing grass, the charmed air!
O Earth, but thou art in thy prime,
And I am old before my time,
And faded; thou art young and fair. "

Thus moaned my friend to me one day,
Or to herself, — I cannot say.
We stood beside the orchard wall:
A look of care was on her face,
But, save that sign, I could not trace
Time's touch, nor wherefore she let fall

Such mournful words. " It is not so, "
I cried; " this witless speech forego!
'T is you are young; the earth is not, —
The poor old Mother! What you see
Of bloom and beauty is not she:
Her years are manifold, I wot.

" Her offspring these, — this grass we tread,
These bloomy sweets above our head;
And she, — why, she is old, I say!
Good father Adam saw her birth.
Go to! why envy this gray earth,
And you just twenty and a day? "

She stooped and plucked a blossom dead,
By some rude wind untimely shed.
" Ah, what rejuvenating art
Shall reach it now? And I, " she cried,
" Am like it, crushed and flung aside;
And oh, I am so old at heart! "

Alas for hearts whence youth has fled!
" The years are pitiful, " I said,
Half guessing what her ail might be;
And wishing, if it could be so,
To medicine her bitter woe, —
Too bitter, as it seemed to me.

" Time bringeth healing; hearts grown sick,
And wounds that quiver to the quick,
Yield to his balsam and his balm.
Take courage! years that might increase
Another's ail shall bring you peace,
Contentment and a steady calm. "

" Not so, " she answered; " grief and dole
Make long abiding in a soul
Stung with remorse; — nay, let me speak;
I 've borne my load so long alone!
Oh, may I tell you? I have grown,
God help me, I have grown so weak! "

She leaned against the orchard wall.
" Dear friend, " I whispered, " tell me all,
Or tell me naught, as suits you best;
Only, if love may wait on grief,
Or aught avail to bring relief,
You know my heart; and, for the rest " —

" And for the rest, " she made reply,
" I shall sleep calmer when I lie
Beneath the grass, and sweeter, too,
For hoping that you 'll come some day
To my poor grave with him , and say,
" She loved you, and she died for you!"

" For oh, I should be glad, so glad,
If this could be! I have not had
So much of life's sweet wine, be sure,
Mixed in my cup that I should care
To drain it, and one well may spare
The bitterness that knows no cure. "

" Now Heaven forgive you, Mabel Vere!
You shall not speak, I will not hear,
Such words as these. God's gifts are good,
And sweetest of them all is life.
Ah, who are we to be at strife
With him, and with his ways at feud?

" And death, — that, too, in his own time,
Is good, for by it we do climb
To fuller life; but, to forestall
His providence and court the fate
His higher wisdom bids us wait,
'T were better not to have lived at all! "

Thus with stern love that did not dare
To shield her fault, or weakly spare
Her weakness, — thus I answered her.
She stood with downcast eyes a space,
Then raised to mine her tear-wet face,
With all its passionate blood astir.

" Yes, I will tell you! You shall know
The secret grief that stabs me so:
It may be you will wonder less
At those wild, wicked words I spoke;
For, darling, when the heart is broke
Who heeds its ravings of distress?

" For I did rave: it would be hard,
I know, to lie beneath the sward,
And I so young in years. Ah, well.
The world is very fair to see, —
Or was; — but turn your eyes from me,
And listen to what once befell.

" The blooms of May! the blooms of May!
One long, long year ago to-day,
I stood beneath this very tree:
My woman's fate was in my hand;
Awhile the fluttering thing I scanned,
Then lightly let it go from me.

" What trifles vex a maiden's mood,
And stir the currents of her blood
To wild revolt and wilful ends!
A vain caprice ungratified,
A whim defeated or defied, —
And strangers part, who met as friends.

" I cannot tell if it were pride
Or pique, or aught to each allied,
But I was young and foolish both.
He came, for he had seen me pass;
I heard his footstep in the grass,
And all my heart was in my mouth!

" Sweet bird-notes rang from all the trees:
I heard a sweeter tune than these
In every step as on he came;
Soft-murmuring bees flew in and out
The honeyed apple-blooms about:
A softer murmur fell, — my name.

" But ah, methought he did not woo
As lovers should, as lovers do, —
With sugared speech and flattering air;
He never once had whispered me
That I was fair, — oh, vanity! —
Nor praised my lips nor praised my hair.

" And yet I knew — But why essay
With loitering words my tale to stay?
Had he not loved me long and well?
Fool! royal plenty at my side,
Yet choosing husks, and satisfied
To drop the sweetness for the shell!

" As near he drew, a bee, half strayed
In its bewildered circuit, made
An instant's lodgment on my face:
He bent and brushed it from my cheek, —
Fair chance some courtly praise to speak,
(I thought,) if one had but the grace!

" Comparisons are quick to come
To lovers' lips, but his are dumb.
The dolt! no image to descry,
Nor say, " Your cheek so like the rose,
What wonder that the poor bee knows
No better? Who can blame? Not I!"

" Instead, " The blundering thing!" he cried.
" It has not stung you?" I replied,
" And if it had, why make ado?"
" Because," he answered, " it were much
To shield you from each harmful touch,
And I am hurt with what hurts you."

" Love's own response, — so good, so kind!
But I was deaf, but I was blind.
He stood one moment pondering,
Then, without further sign or look,
Deftly from off his finger took
A little shining, golden ring.

" " It was my mother's: when she died,
She bade me keep it — for my bride;
Her gift, she said" (his words came slow).
" O Mabel, may she give it you?
I love you well, I love you true;
You 'll wear it, darling? Tell me so."

" What ailed me? With a cruel scorn,
A sudden madness, passion-born,
I dashed his pleading hand aside.
" I do not love, I cannot wed,
And so I will not mock the dead
With wearing of her ring!" I cried.

" And as I purposed, — had he seen? —
The ring slid down among the green,
Which shrank, as loath such spoil to take;
And while I looked, each grassy blade
Assumed a dagger's point and made
Mute thrusts at me, or seemed to make.

" O sacrilege! — but I was torn
With jealous fears: could I have borne
To see another wear the ring?
No; lost to me, there let it lie,
Though every careless passer-by
Smote with rude heel the hallowed thing!

" But rallying, " Alas for man's
Forecasting! Fate forbids the banns,
And, certes, she is right," I said:
" Go, sir! who weds with me, I wis,
Must woo in other guise than this:
I like not dealings with the dead!"

" He answered not; he held my gaze
One moment with his own, — amaze,
Scorn, pity, anguish in his look;
Then turning, left me to the fate
Which I had dared, — so desolate,
To think on it I could not brook!

" And ever since that fateful morn
Which banned me with his pitying scorn,
Life has been little worth to me; —
If that be life, whose every breath
Is but a whispered prayer for death,
Careless how soon the end may be. "

She bent to meet my mute caress:
" Heaven send you sweet forgetfulness, "
I murmured. " That were doubtful gain, "
She cried; " but would, oh brave heart lost!
Would thou couldst know the bitter cost,
And all my grief, remorse, and pain! "

A footstep on the other side,
Just where the skirting bushes hide
The orchard wall! A moment more,
And, clearing at a bound the space,
He stands with Mabel face to face, —
The lover whom her thoughts deplore!

And what remains to tell? I turned
And left them. When the sunset burned
In the sweet west, we saw them pass:
I looked, a ring was on her hand,
The same — but you will understand: —
It was not lost beneath the grass!