Poems (Henderson)/Renunciation
For works with similar titles, see Renunciation.
RENUNCIATION.
Here are the letters, and here is the ring,Does it slip off easily? No.But clings with a touch unbecoming,The hands that tremble so.
Weak? not weak, but oppressed,With a nameless dread and a fear,That he will note the decline,Of the repellant force I would bear.
Here is a rose and a lily,Faded, and pressed with care,And here is a mocking curl,Of silken, dead-gold hair.
Ah well! what is Life but loving,And loving is folly and strife,But better the maid should discover,This truth, than the stricken wife.
Sunshine and shadow, they go to make,The seasons and cycles of Time, And no man guideth the hail and the rain,The snow, and the harvest time.
And the tides flow on, and the birds,Bring out their young in their nests,And no man watcheth the royal growth,Of the lily's loveliness.
But Love is a plant that thrives,On sorrow, and beauty, and pain,And Truth is a phantom that flits,Through the mazes of the brain.
Love, ah! he loves not me,And there was not a shadow of truth,In the vow he sware to me,That he reverenced beauty and youth.
For her face with its great black eyes,And its hollow circles of pain,And the faded beauty that she holds,Belie the story again.
Once she was sweet and fair,Now she is faded and worn,And he to come with the face of a liar,And swear he loved me alone.
Love, not I, neither scorn nor hate,But the longing pain and desire, For the fresnness of heart, and the peace,That was mine, burns into my brain like fire.
If I could think of myself as one,That had faced the wind and the tide,And viewed my bark, with its shattered sail,On the ocean floating wide.
Then could I say, Oh, sea! thou art false,And not to be trusted or tried,For my ship went down with her colors true,Floating in scornful pride.
Shall I weep? no, weeping softens the heart,And makes us forgiving and meek,And I would not spare him the pain,Of the truth I intend to speak.
"Mine," he said, and he looked in my eyes,And held their glance as the snake,Snares the bird in the shadowy wood,From her leafy nest in the brake.
"Thine," I said, and I held it dear,That God had given me grace,To love not anything false or fair,But to keep my girlish faith.
For here I said, of a truth I have found,What never before was possessed,A heart so true that no other love,Could live in its pure embrace.
False, have I found him? well, I was vainOr I should not have thought to find,A troth so strong that it would not grow,Weak with the pressure of Time.
Dead ashes are these, faded lily and rose,And worthless trifles the letters and ring,But somehow I wonder, when he knows,That I am aware of this thing—
If he will feel a desire,To put the past so far away,From out his life that not a ray,Of its olden beauty and fire,Shall sometimes steal to the depths,Of his heart, and lift him higher.
Oh! heart, thou art one of the many,That this night bend and weep,Over the ashes of love,And its myriad forms of deceit.
I will not woo thee again to rest,In my heart, thou spoiler of peace,Not if thou wert fairer than dawn,And light as the rain bow's fleece.
I close thy record, Oh life,Hearts were trumps and I won,Now diamonds are first, and she who wins,Will rue it as I have done.
