14
the story of two lives.
I shall not be more lone and still than there,
In that damp cellar gloom—no fire, no air—
Although, so near, the gaudy, reckless town
In its triumphant life heaves up and down.
In that damp cellar gloom—no fire, no air—
Although, so near, the gaudy, reckless town
In its triumphant life heaves up and down.
I always feared the darkness as a child.
A child? could I have ever been a child?
Light-hearted, innocent, and glad and free?
One such long since I knew . . . was she like me?
Did I love snowdrops, and the lambs in spring?
The little birds, each soft and helpless thing?
I could be gentle then . . . ah me! how strange,
These thoughts rise, now, to torture and avenge!
They say that drowning men can thus recall
Their whole lives through, as sinking, slow, they fall;
Are the wild waters closing o'er my head,
That thus I see the Past before me spread?
I see the terrace gleaming in the sun,
The golden plain ere reaping was begun,
The church-tower hid beneath close ivy sheaves,
The pigeons fluttering o'er the moss-grown eaves,
The garden bright, with summer’s sweetest flowers,
Its quaint pleached walks, its gold laburnum bowers;
A child? could I have ever been a child?
Light-hearted, innocent, and glad and free?
One such long since I knew . . . was she like me?
Did I love snowdrops, and the lambs in spring?
The little birds, each soft and helpless thing?
I could be gentle then . . . ah me! how strange,
These thoughts rise, now, to torture and avenge!
They say that drowning men can thus recall
Their whole lives through, as sinking, slow, they fall;
Are the wild waters closing o'er my head,
That thus I see the Past before me spread?
I see the terrace gleaming in the sun,
The golden plain ere reaping was begun,
The church-tower hid beneath close ivy sheaves,
The pigeons fluttering o'er the moss-grown eaves,
The garden bright, with summer’s sweetest flowers,
Its quaint pleached walks, its gold laburnum bowers;
