Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/166

But for me—you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter,—
How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone!
I shall leave this house at dawn—I would to-night, if I were better—
And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun.

When the sun has dyed the orient, I depart with no last gazes,
No weak moanings—one word only, left in writing for her hands,—
Out of reach of her derisions, and some unavailing praises,
To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands.

Blame me not, I would not squander life in grief—I am abstemious;
I but nurse my spirit's falcon, that its wing may soar again!
There's no room for tears of weakness, in the blind eyes of a Phemius:
Into work the poet kneads them,—and he does not die till then.

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CONCLUSION.

Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever
Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell his tears on every leaf:
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.

Soh! how still the lady standeth! 'tis a dream—a dream of mercies!
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she standeth still and pale!