Classic Poem

Flowers ,—that have died upon my Sweet,
Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat
—Of her young bosom under you,—
Now will I show you such a thing
As never, through thick buds of Spring,
—Betwixt the daylight and the dew,
The Bird whose being no man knows—
—The voice that waketh all night through,
Tells to the Rose.

For lo,—a garden-place I found,
Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound,
—Well flowered, with red fruit marvelous;
And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit
Tall knights and silken maids, or sit
—With faces bent and amorous;—
There, in the heart thereof, and crowned
—With woodbine and amaracus,
My Love I found.

Alone she walked,—ah, well I wis,
My heart leapt up for joy of this!—
—Then when I called to her her name,—
The name, that like a pleasant thing
Men's lips remember, murmuring,—
—At once across the sward she came,—
Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid
—And askèd ever as she came,
“Where hast thou stayed?”

“Where hast thou stayed?” she asked, as though
The long years were an hour ago;
—But I spake not, nor answerèd,
For, looking in her eyes, I saw
A light not lit of mortal law;
—And in her clear cheek's changeless red,
And sweet, unshaken speaking found
—That in this place the Hours were dead,
And Time was bound.

“This is well done,” she said, “in thee,
O Love, that thou art come to me,
—To this green garden glorious;
Now truly shall our life be sped
In joyance and all goodlihed,
—For here all things are fair to us,
And none with burden is oppressed,
—And none is poor or piteous,—
For here is Rest.

“No formless Future blurs the sky;
Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye,
—By shrouded shapes of Yesterday;
Betwixt the Coming and the Past
The flawless life hangs fixen fast
—In one unwearying To-Day,
That darkens not; for Sin is shriven,
—Death from the doors is thrust away,
And here is Heaven.”

At “Heaven” she ceased;—and lifted up
Her fair head like a flower-cup,
—With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow;
Then set I lips to hers, and felt,—
Ah, God,—the hard pain fade and melt,
—And past things change to painted show;
The song of quiring birds outbroke;
—The lit leaves laughed—sky shook, and lo,
I swooned,—and woke.

And now, O Flowers,
——Ye that indeed are dead,—
—Now for all waiting hours,
Well am I comforted;
For of a surety, now, I see,
That, without dim distress
Of tears, or weariness,
My Lady, verily, awaiteth me;
So that until with Her I be,
For my dear Lady's sake
I am right fain to make
—Out from my pain a pillow, and to take
Grief for a golden garment unto me;
Knowing that I, at last, shall stand
In that green garden-land,
—And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand,
Forget the grieving and the misery.