Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Grand Duke
THE GRAND DUKE
You gave me flowers in the crimson eves,
Down by the garden gate,
Where, on his throne of glad geranium leaves,
The Grand Duke sat in state.
You pitied him—the Grand Duke—and you sent
A rare and budding bride,
A lithe and fragrant Duchess, dew-be-sprent,
Snow-bosomed and blue-eyed.
Anon, the Grand Duke frowned and stood apart—
The cold and bashful churl!
Until you bound them, darling, heart to heart,
With one enamored curl.
Ah me! I have the plaintive bouquet here,
With all its lustre fled;
The lissome bride on her geranium bier,
And the dear Grand Duke—dead.
And many sad and sombre thoughts arise
Within me and without;
Spectres of flowerets pictured on mine eyes,
Robed in a shroud of doubt.
Here, in the hot June midnight, grave and lone,
By the dull candle’s flare,
I weave unutterable words, and moan
Over a woman’s hair.
“Only a woman’s hair!” and still I sob
O’er memory with her pearls,
Crushing my brows with anguish till they throb—
Writhing my soul with curls.
No—no! I must not ponder things like these;
Be mine a breast of mail—
Though but a Nautilus of frenzied seas,
Swift—solitary—frail.
The world will know you not, my song, for you
Speak but to one, and say
Something I dare not, to an eve of blue
When I am far away.
I dare not—for I flit the waif of chance,
A riddle few have read,
Like the Grand Duke, I’ve had my day’s romance,
Like the Grand Duke, am dead.