Classic Poem

Oh , she was wondrous fair,
And when I said
" Thee would I wed, "
She listened to my prayer;

But not as woman hears,
When thrills the oath
Of plighted troth
In her expectant ears;

Rather as Mary Saint
In altared shrine,
With look benign,
Receives a sinner's plaint

Who asks a happier lot;
Though tOhis suit
The Virgin, mute
But gracious, answers not,

Until his soul shall rise,
Through saving grace,
Her living face
To meet in Paradise.

I said, " When we are wed,
My paradise
Shall be thine eyes. "
Then she — " My heart is dead. "

I answered — " Only seared,
And by the blight
Of broken plight
To me far more endeared.

" Black is the carboneer,
Who burns the oak
To blacker coke,
And makes the woodlands drear.

" But blacker yet his soul,
Who kindled thine
With base design,
And left its blossoms coal.

" My love with tender art
And patient aim
Shall blow its flame
Upon thy cindered heart. "

At this she dimly smiled,
As in a grief
One finds relief
By curious tales beguiled.

And when my suit I pressed,
She, still in sorrow,
Sighed, " Well, to-morrow;
Now, prithee, let me rest. "

The morrow came and sealed
Our fates in one;
Fair smiled the sun;
Gaily the church-bells pealed.

As when you chance to feel
A limb of wood,
It chills your blood,
As might the surgeon's steel;

I found the wounded pride
Of Love's keen smart,
Had left her heart
Not charred, but petrified.

For years I've vainly striven
With ardour true
To fire anew
That heart by sorrow riven.

For years my lips have tasted
The mocking bliss
Of marble kiss,
Until my frame is wasted

And when I pray for death,
Her lips, still fair,
Add to my prayer,
Amen! with icy breath.