Poems (May)/May, 1863
MAY, 1853.
To one whose wine of life Blushed under lilies, Death victorious spake, Proving the temper of his keen-edged sword On that light feather, hope. On that light feather, hope."Thou infidel! Knowing my touch in every flower that falls,Yet my the tenor of thine unawed life Ever denying me. Ever denying me.Once was it thus? As one who dwells in valleys, yet looks up Prom flowers and sun-barred paths to bid his thoughts Light on the circling snow-peaks, thou didst lift Early, thy soul to me. If now thou fearest, Yet when the wasting of thy life began, Strange pleasure mixed with awe. As one who sings Aloud to deafen sorrow, thou mayst drown Awhile my solemn warning. Yet thine eyes Bead me in all things. All things offer thee Only my gifts. To thee the sunshine brings Fever and faintness. By fresh summer winds, Grave damps are blown. Grave damps are blown.A little while, poor fool, Life shall make sport of thee. There shall be times When she will breathe new vigour through thy limbs, Smile through thine eyes, lend to thy heavy step Deceitful lightness. I, that stand so near, Will seem afar. Spring hopes will bloom again Like those November violets the gaunt frost Takes in his shrivelled fingers. Then, some day, While thou dost shudder and grow pale to cross December's snowy threshold—some dull day When winter, through the early April woods, Gathering his tatters round him, stalks and scares The blossoms back, thou'lt meet me face to face Upon that narrow path, not wide enough For me and thee."