Poems (May)/A poet's love

by Edith May

A POET'S LOVE.

The stag leaps free in the forest's heart,
 But thy step is lighter, my love, my bride!
Light as the quick-footed breezes that part
 The plumy ferns on the mountain's side;
Swift as the zephyrs that come and pass
O'er the waveless lake, and the billowy grass.
I hear thy voice where the white wave gleams,
In the one-toned bells of the rippled streams,
In the silvery boughs of the aspen tree,
 In the wind that stirreth the shadowy pine,
In the shell that moans for the distant sea,
 Never was voice so sweet as thine!
Never a sound through the even dim
Came half so soft as thy vesper hymn,

I have followed, fast, from the lark's low nest,
Thy breezy step to the mountain crest.
The livelong day I have wandered on,
Till the stars were up, and the twilight gone,
Ever unwearied where thou hast roved,
Fairest, and purest, and best beloved!
I have felt thy kiss in the leafy aisle,
 And thy breath astir in my floating hair;
I have met the light of thy haunting smile
 In the deep still woods, and the sunny air;
For thou lookest down from the bending skies,
And the earth is glad with thy laughing eyes.

When my heart is sad, and my pulse beats low,
Whose touch so light on my aching brow?
Who cometh in dreams to my midnight sleep?
 Who bendeth over my noonday rest?
Who singeth me songs in the forest deep.
 Laying my head to her gentle breast?
When life grows dim to my weary eye,
When joy departeth, and sorrow is nigh,
Who, 'neath the track of the stars, save thee,
Speaketh or singeth of hope to me?

There comes a time when the morn shall rise,
Yet charm no smile to thy filmed eyes.
There comes a time when thou liest low
With the roses dead on thy frozen brow,
With a pall hung over thy tranced rest,
And the pulse asleep in thy silent breast.
There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear,
And a white-robed priest to thine icy bier.
His lips are cold, but his dim eyes weep,
And he maketh thy grave where the snow falls deep.
Woe is me, when I watch and pray
 For the lightest sound of thy coming foot,
For the softest note of thy summer lay,
 For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute!
Woe is me, when the storms sweep by;
And the mocking winds are my sole reply!