Maurine and Other Poems | Page 9

longs to yield its all to thee,
I call mine own--oh, come to me!

Love, answer back, I come to thee,
I come to thee.
This hungry heart, so warm, so large,
Is far too great a care for me.
I have grown weary of the charge
I keep so sacredly for thee.
Come thou, and take my heart from me.

Love, answer back, I come to thee,
I come to thee.
I am a-weary, waiting here
For one who tarries long from me.
Oh! art thou far, or art thou near?
And must I still be sad for thee?
Or wilt thou straightway come to me?

Love, answer, I am near to thee,
I come to thee.

The melody, so full of plaintive chords,
Sobbed into silence--echoing
down the strings
Like voice of one who walks from us, and sings.

Vivian had leaned upon the instrument
The while they sang. But, as
he spoke those words,
"Love, I am near to thee, I come to thee,"
He
turned his grand head slowly round, and bent
His lustrous, soulful,
speaking gaze on me.
And my young heart, eager to own its king,

Sent to my eyes a great, glad, trustful light
Of love and faith, and
hung upon my cheek
Hope's rose-hued flag. There was no need to
speak
I crossed the room, and knelt by Helen. "Sing
That song you
sang a fragment of one night
Out on the porch, beginning, 'Praise me
not,'"
I whispered: and her sweet and plaintive tone
Rose, low and
tender, as if she had caught
From some sad passing breeze, and made
her own,
The echo of the wind-harp's sighing strain,
Or the soft
music of the falling rain.
SONG.
O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
Though your tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful
gaze
Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes,
Your tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
Though I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper
far
By your sad, reproving eyes,
Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;

Above, in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
But only smile with their eyes -
Smile on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one;
On the winged wind speech flies.
But I read the truth of your noble
heart
In your soulful, speaking eyes -
In your deep and beautiful eyes.
The twilight darkened, round us, in the room,
While Helen sang; and,
in the gathering gloom,
Vivian reached out, and took my hand in his,

And held it so; while Helen made the air
Languid with music. Then
a step drew near,
And voice of Aunt Ruth broke the spell:
"Dear! dear!
Why, Maurie, Helen, children! how is this?
I hear you,
but you have no light in there.
Your room is dark as Egypt. What a
way
For folks to visit! Maurie, go, I pray,
And order lamps."
And so there came a light,
And all the sweet dreams hovering around

The twilight shadows flitted in affright:
And e'en the music had a
harsher sound.
In pleasant converse passed an hour away:
And
Vivian planned a picnic for next day -
A drive the next, and rambles
without end,
That he might help me entertain my friend.
And then
he rose, bowed low, and passed from sight,
Like some great star that
drops out from the night;
And Helen watched him through the
shadows go,
And turned and said, her voice subdued and low,

"How tall he is! in all my life, Maurine,
A grander man I never yet
have seen."
PART III

One golden twelfth-part of a checkered year;
One summer month, of
sunlight, moonlight, mirth,
With not a hint of shadows lurking near,

Or storm-clouds brewing.
'Twas a royal day:
Voluptuous July held her lover, Earth,
With her
warm arms, upon her glowing breast,
And twined herself about him,
as he lay
Smiling and panting in his dream-stirred rest.
She bound
him with her limbs of perfect grace,
And hid him with her trailing
robe of green,
And wound him in her long hair's shimmering sheen,

And rained her ardent kisses on his face.
Through the glad glory of
the summer land
Helen and I went wandering, hand in hand.
In
winding paths, hard by the ripe wheat-field,
White with the promise
of a bounteous yield,
Across the late shorn meadow--down the hill,

Red with the tiger-lily blossoms, till
We stood upon the borders of the
lake,
That like a pretty, placid infant, slept
Low at its base: and little
ripples crept
Along its surface, just as dimples chase
Each other o'er
an infant's sleeping face.
Helen in idle hours had learned to make
A
thousand pretty, feminine knick-knacks:
For brackets, ottomans, and
toilet stands -
Labour just suited to her dainty hands.
That morning
she had been at work in wax,
Moulding a wreath of flowers for my
room, -
Taking her patterns from the living blows,
In all their dewy
beauty and sweet bloom,
Fresh from my garden. Fuchsia, tulip, rose,

And trailing ivy, grew beneath her touch,
Resembling the living
plants as much
As life is copied in the form of death:
These lacking
but the perfume,