In the lower earth, in the years long still, And your mouth of your own geranium's red In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see! I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold There was place and to spare for the frank young smile So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep — See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, Edgar A. Poe. That a maiden there lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love, So that her high-born kinsmen came In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heave 1, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride, In her tomb by the sounding sea. MOTHER AND POET. TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here, Mrs. Browning. -The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Y What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat, And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat; To teach them. It stings there! I made them indeed Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed. God, how the house O my beautiful eyes! . Then one weeps, then one kneels! feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin! "Ancona was free! I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, One loved me for two- would be with me ere long: And Viva l'Italia! - he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." My Nannie would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest On which, without pause, up the telegraph line You think Guido forgot? What! Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, mine," O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy Mother! Consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta 's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort, Have cut the game short? When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead) — What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, When the Man-Child is born. Dead: One of them shot by the sea in the east, [This was LAURA SAVIO, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.] LOVED ONCE. I classed, appraising once, Earth's lamentable sounds; the welladay, The jarring yea and nay, The fall of kisses on unanswering clay, The sobbed farewell, the welcome mournfuller; But all did leaven the air With a less bitter leaven of sure despair, Ibid. And who saith, "I loved ONCE? Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, love, foresee, Love through eternity! Who, by To Love, do apprehend To Be. Not God, called Love, his noble crown-name,―casting The great God changing not from everlasting, Nor ever the "Loved ONCE," Dost THOU say, Victim-Christ, misprized friend! But, having loved, Thou lovest to the end! |