Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1648/Dust and Ashes

DUST AND ASHES.

I.

Betwixt your home and mine,
Oh, love, there is a graveyard lying;
And every time you came,
Your steps were o'er the dead, and from the dying!

Your face was dark and sad, —
Your eyes had shadows in their very laughter,
Yet their glances made me glad,
And shut my own to what was coming after.

Your voice had deeper chords
Than the Æolian harp when night-winds blow;
The melancholy music of your words
None but myself may know.

And, oh, you won my heart
By vows unbreathed — by words of love unspoken;
So that, as now we part,
You have no blame to bear, and yet — 'tis broken!

II.

How shall I bear this blow, how best resent it?
Ah, love, you have not left me even my pride!
Nor strength to put aside, nor to repent it
'Twere better I had died!

You came beneath my tent with friendly greeting;
Of all my joys you had the better part;
Then when our eyes and hands were oftenest meeting,
You struck me to the heart!

No less a murderer, that your victim, living,
Can face the passing world, and jest and smile!
No less a traitor, for your show of giving
Your friendship all the while

Well, let it pass! The city churchyard lying
Betwixt our homes is but a type and sign
Of the waste in your heart, and of the eternal dying
Of all sweet hopes in mine!

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