Poems (Greenwell)/The Lover's Quarrel

by Dora Greenwell

THE LOVER'S QUARREL.

Light is the Lover's quarrel, men say—I think not so,
It is the hand we love the best that deals the hardest blow,
And the wounds that come from it the heart is still too proud to show.

So closes over them; too proud? Nay! Pride is not so strong
As that which fain a hurt would hide although it rankle long,
From soothing that would only chafe, and pity that would wrong;

For Anger born of Love, although like sweetest things that turn
The bitterest of all, it seem each soft'ning thought to spurn,
Yet owns the country whence it came, and after it will yearn,—

And something there is still that brooks no word or thought unkind,
And seeks amid its very pain some fond excuse to find,
For what was dear, and may not all at once be cast behind;

I speak of what I know full well, for thus it chanced of yore,
(I know not now where blame should rest so lay it at the door
Of Love, that having given so much, will still exact the more.)

With me and Her I love—one Eve our parting was in scorn,
Oh! dimly, sadly broke the next and many an afterdawn,
With sense of something gone from me, and evermore withdrawn;

For Sunrise used within my heart to wake a matin chime
Of bells, that rung me to a strife untold as yet in rhyme,
Though fierce as Dragon-Fight of old—the Lover's against Time!

Like Errant Knight I pressed him sore and found him hard to kill,
Yet strove with action and emprise to gain upon him still,
And with some task of nobleness each lingering pause to fill

Between the hours we used to meet; but now with even flow
His sands might run, I would not try to shake them to and fro,
And his great Chariot-wheels for me might move on swift or slow.

For all the days that used to shine in characters of light
Upon the Kalends of my life marked out in red and white,
Had faded, when their Saint no more would bless her Votary's sight;

And so I thought I will away, nor linger here alone,
To vex my heart out, like a ghost that makes an idle moan
About the place where joy was once and is for ever flown;

Better to see her never more, than meet as now we meet,
Yet will I see her once again, I said; and strove to cheat,
To sternness and to pride my heart that told me it was sweet

To meet her even thus; I thought, some crowded scene were best,
Less room for feelings there to rise that have to be repressed;
There she may pass me if she will as one among the rest,

And less be there to bring again the thought of things gone by,
And easier for me to bear her changed, averted eye,
And to cold words of courtesy make fitting, due reply.

Small heart had I for revels then, and little graced, I trow,
The one I went to as I stood with dark, abstracted brow
And folded arms,—I see it all distinct before me now,

The gay and lighted room, the crowd of smiling faces there,
I smiled (for quickly learnt the stern moralities of Care;)
"It only is that they than I the mask more closely wear."

Was she among the maskers then?—that came into the room
With frank sweet smile, and cheek that blushed in beauty's conscious bloom;
I wrapt my spirit at the sight in deeper, thicker gloom,

And to my brain the endless strain more dull and vexing grew,
The dance swept onwards—it were well to play the pageant through;
I thought, and with a listless step its maze I threaded too.

And knew not she was nigh until my ear her accents met,
"You leave us then so soon? Farewell!" and softer, lower yet
In tones that none beside might hear, "Forgive, but don't forget."

I looked up at her words and met an eye whose gentle ray
Sunk timid 'neath my anxious gaze, yet was not turned away.
And the smile that used to be of old, as kind, but not so gay;

The ice about my heart gave way, and with a generous shame,
I answered quick, "Forgive? nay! now too much from me you claim,
For hard I find it to forgive the only one to blame,"

"Unless your kindness intercede, and plead for him awhile,
You that alone in all the world can soothe and reconcile
My wayward spirit with itself,"—she answered by a smile.