WHEN?

 
  If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
             That the next sun
  Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
             For any one,
  All the fight fought, all the short journey through:
             What should I do?
 
 
  I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
             But just go on,
  Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter
             Aught that is gone;
  But rise and move and love and smile and pray
             For one more day.
 
 
  And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
             Say in that ear
  Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping
             How should I fear?
  And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still.
             Do Thou Thy will."
 
 
  I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
             My soul would lie
  All the night long; and when the morning splendor
             Flashed o'er the sky,
  I think that I could smile—could calmly say,
             "It is His day."
 
 
  But, if instead a hand from the blue yonder
             Held out a scroll,
  On which my life was, writ, and I with wonder
             Beheld unroll
  To a long century's end its mystic clew,
             What should I do?
 
 
  What COULD I do, O blessed Guide and Master,
             Other than this:
  Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
             Nor fear to miss
  The road, although so very long it be,
             While led by Thee?
 
 
  Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,
             Although unseen,
  Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee,
              Or heavens serene,
  Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray,
             Thy love decay.
 
 
  I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth
             Thy counsels wise;
  Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
             No voice replies
  To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
             And it is well.
 
 
  Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
               Thy will always,
  Through a long century's ripening fruition,
               Or a short day's.
  Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
             If thou come late.
 

ON THE SHORE

 
    The punctual tide draws up the bay,
    With ripple of wave and hiss of spray,
  And the great red flower of the light-house tower
    Blooms on the headland far away.
 
 
    Petal by petal its fiery rose
    Out of the darkness buds and grows;
  A dazzling shape on the dim, far cape,
    A beckoning shape as it comes and goes.
 
 
    A moment of bloom, and then it dies
    On the windy cliff 'twixt the sea and skies.
  The fog laughs low to see it go,
    And the white waves watch it with cruel eyes.
 
 
    Then suddenly out of the mist-cloud dun,
    As touched and wooed by unseen sun,
  Again into sight bursts the rose of light
    And opens its petals one by one.
 
 
    Ah, the storm may be wild and the sea be strong,
    And man is weak and the darkness long,
  But while blossoms the flower on the light-house tower
    There still is place for a smile and a song.
 

AMONG THE LILIES

 
    She stood among the lilies
      In sunset's brightest ray,
    Among the tall June lilies,
      As stately fair as they;
  And I, a boyish lover then,
  Looked once, and, lingering, looked again,
     And life began that day.
 
 
    She sat among the lilies,
      My sweet, all lily-pale;
    The summer lilies listened,
      I whispered low my tale.
  O golden anthers, breathing balm,
  O hush of peace, O twilight calm,
      Did you or I prevail?
 
 
    She lies among the lily-snows,
      Beneath the wintry sky;
    All round her and about her
      The buried lilies lie.
  They will awake at touch of Spring,
  And she, my fair and flower-like thing,
      In spring-time—by and by.
 

NOVEMBER

 
      Dry leaves upon the wall,
  Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,
  A single frosted cluster on the grape
      Still hangs—and that is all.
 
 
      It hangs forgotten quite,—
  Forgotten in the purple vintage-day,
  Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay,
      The daggers of the night.
 
 
      It knew the thrill of spring;
  It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons;
  Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes
      Of summer's whispering.
 
 
      Through balmy morns of May;
  Through fragrances of June and bright July,
  And August, hot and still, it hung on high
      And purpled day by day.
 
 
      Of fair and mantling shapes,
  No braver, fairer cluster on the tree;
  And what then is this thing has come to thee
      Among the other grapes,
 
 
      Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,
  Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,
  To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied
      Thy place among the wine?
 
 
      Ah! we are dull and blind.
  The riddle is too hard for us to guess
  The why of joy or of unhappiness,
      Chosen or left behind.
 
 
      But everywhere a host
  Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine:
  Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,
      Left out to meet the frost.
 

EMBALMED

 
  This is the street and the dwelling,
    Let me count the houses o'er;
  Yes,—one, two, three from the corner,
    And the house that I love makes four.
 
 
  That is the very window
    Where I used to see her head
  Bent over book or needle,
    With ivy garlanded.
 
 
  And the very loop of the curtain,
    And the very curve of the vine,
  Were full of the grace and the meaning
    Which was hers by some right divine.
 
 
  I began to be glad at the corner,
    And all the way to the door
  My heart outran my footsteps,
    And frolicked and danced before,
 
 
  In haste for the words of welcome,
    The voice, the repose and grace,
  And the smile, like a benediction,
    Of that beautiful, vanished face.
 
 
  Now I pass the door, and I pause not,
    And I look the other way;
  But ever, a waft of fragrance,
    Too subtle to name or stay,
 
 
  Comes the thought of the gracious presence
    Which made that past time sweet,
  And still to those who remember,
    Embalms the house and the street,
 
 
  Like the breath from some vase, now empty
    Of a flowery shape unseen,
  Which follows the path of its lover,
    To tell where a rose has been.
 

GINEVRA DEGLI AMIERI

A STORY OF OLD FLORENCE

 
  So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
  Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,
  Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
  As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair.
  Were they afraid that I should be afraid?
  I, who had died once and been laid in tomb?
  They need not.
 
 
                  Little one, look not so pale.
  I am not raving. Ah! you never heard
  The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
  Sit close, and listen. After this one day
  I shall not tell you stories any more.
 
 
  How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
  Almost a woman? Scarcely more than that
  Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;
  And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
  I left my father's house, a bride in May.
  You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,
  Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frown
  On the Mercato, humming at its base;
  And hold on high, out of the common reach,
  The lilies and carved shields above its door;
  And, higher yet, to catch and woo the sun,
  A little loggia set against the sky?
  That was my play-place ever as a child;
  And with me used to play a kinsman's son,
  Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!
  Two happy things we were, with none to chide
  Or hint that life was anything but play.
 
 
  Sudden the play-time ended. All at once
  "You must be wed," they told me. "What is wed?"
  I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,
  Let them put on the garland, smiled to see
  The glancing jewels tied about my neck;
  And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth
  By my grave husband, older than my sire.
 
 
  O the long years that followed! It would seem
  That the sun never shone in all those years,
  Or only with a sudden, troubled glint
  Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by
  Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love
  Raised to my face,—my conscious, woful face.
  Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined
  Together, none forbidding, for so long.
  They let our childish fingers drop the seed,
  Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;
  They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,
  Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.
  I loved Antonio, and he loved me.
 
 
  Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!
  I loved Antonio, but I kept me pure,
  Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake
  Of him, my first-born child, my little child,
  Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look
  Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.
  I loved; but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!
  (Remember that, Madonna, when I come
  Before thy throne to-morrow. Be not stern,
  Or gaze upon me with reproachful look,
  Making my little angel hide his face
  And weep, while all the others turn glad eyes
  Rejoicing on their mothers.)
 
 
                                 It was hard
  To sit in darkness while the rest had light,
  To move to discords when the rest had song,
  To be so young and never to have lived.
  I bore, as women bear, until one day
  Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"
  And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,
  And what was blank before grew blanker still.
 
 
  It was a fever, so the leeches said.
  I had been dead so long, I did not know
  The difference, or heed. Oil on my breast,
  The garments of the grave about me wrapped,
  They bore me forth, and laid me in the tomb.
  The rich and beautiful and dreadful tomb,
  Where all the buried Amteris lie,
  Beneath the Duomo's black and towering shade.
 
 
  Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.
  It was night then, when I awoke to feel
  That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams
  Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door,
  The coffins of my fathers all about.
  Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,
  As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.
  With frantic strength I beat upon the grate.
  It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand
  Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore
  Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure
  Next time. NEXT TIME. That hurts me even now!
 
 
  Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which.
  High overhead Giotto's tower soared;
  Behind, the Duomo rose all white and black;
  Then pealed a sudden jargoning of bells,
  And down the darkling street I wildly fled,
  Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,
  Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.
  I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light
  And human touch; but still my witless steps
  Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped,
  By instinct, knocked, and called.
 
 
                                      A window oped.
  A voice—t'was his—demanded: "Who is there?"
  "Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone
  Change into horror, and he prayed aloud
  And called upon the saints, the while I urged,
  "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!
  I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"
  Then, with a crash, the window was shut fast;
  And, though I cried and beat upon the door
  And wailed aloud, no other answer came.
 
 
  Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove
  Down the hard distance towards my father's house.
  "They will have pity and will let me in,"
  I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."
  Cowards! At the high window overhead
  They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed:
  "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!
  I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!"
  "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.
  My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax
  To St. Eustachio, would he but remove
  This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp
  Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust
  From out the window, and my brother cried,
  "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"
 
 
  Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb
  And the cold coffined ones? Up the long street,
  Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.
  My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;
  My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose
  Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape
  Saw never Florence since. The people call
  That street through which I walked and wrung my hands
  "Street of the Dead One," even to this day.
  The sleeping houses stood in midnight black,
  And not a soul was in the streets but I.
 
 
  At last I saw a flickering point of light
  High overhead, in a dim window set.
  I had lain down to die; but at the sight
  I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength
  Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then
  It was Antonio's door by which I lay.
 
 
  A window opened, and a voice called out:
  "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,
  "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,
  And bid me hence." But, lo! a moment more
  The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch
  Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in.
  "O ghost or angel of my buried love,
  I know not, care not which, be welcome here!
  Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"
  I heard him say, and then I heard no more.
 
 
  It was high noontide when I woke again,
  To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,—
  My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,
  Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,
  Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet
  Over the pavement to Antonio's door.
  Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs.
  Hot raged the quarrel; then came Justice in,
  And to the court we swept—I in my shroud—
  To try the cause.
 
 
             This was the verdict given:
  "A woman who has been to burial borne,
  Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;
  Who at her husband's door has stood and plead
  For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;
  Who from her father's house is urged and chased,
  Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.
 
 
  The Court pronounces the defendant—dead!
  She can resume her former ties at will,
  Or may renounce them, if such be her will.
  She is no more a daughter, or a spouse,
  Unless she choose, and is set free to form
  New ties, if so she choose."
 
 
                           O, blessed words!
  That very day we knelt before the priest,
  My love and I, were wed, and life began.
 
 
  Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,
  Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.
  'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.
  But time is brief, and, had I told you not,
  Haply the story would have met your ears
  From them, the Amieri, my own blood,
  Now turned to gall, whose foul and bitter lips
  Will wag with lies when once my lips are dumb.
  (Pardon me, Virgin. I was gentle once,
  And thou hast seen my wrongs. Thou wilt forgive.)
  Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,
  To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.
  I, who have died once, do not fear to die.
 
 
  Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.
  Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits
  Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,
  I know I shall not stand long at that gate,
  Or knock and be refused an entrance there,
  For he will start up when lie hears my voice,
  The saints will smile, and he will open quick.
  Only a night to part me from that joy.
  Jesu Maria! let the dawning come.