Poems (Proctor)/The Tryst of Souls

by Edna Dean Proctor

THE TRYST OF SOULS.

Low hung the moon, the wind was still,
As slow I climbed the midnight hill,
And passed the ruined garden o'er,
And gained the barred and silent door;
Sad-welcomed by the lingering rose
That, startled, shed its waning snows.

The bolt flew back with sudden clang;
I entered; wall and rafter rang;
Down dropped the moon, and, clear and high,
September's wind went wailing by;—
"Alas!" I sighed, "the love and glow
That lit this mansion, long ago!"

And groping up the threshold stair,
And past the chambers cold and bare,
I sought the room where glad, of yore,
We sat the blazing fire before,
And heard the tales a father told,
Till glow was gone and evening old.

Where were those rosy children three?
The boy beneath the moaning sea;
Blithe Margaret, down where violets hide,
Slept, tranquil, by that father's side;
And I, alone, a pilgrim still,
Was left to climb the midnight hill.

My hand was on the latch, when lo!
'T was lifted from within! and slow,
Dawned on my heart its dearest dream;—
Within I saw the wood-fire gleam,
And smiling, waiting, beckoning there,
My father, in his ancient chair!

O the long rapture, perfect rest,
As close he clasped me to his breast!
Put back the braids the wind had blown;
Said I had like my mother grown;
And bade me tell him, frank as she,
All the lone years had brought to me.

What cared I then?—his hand in mine,
I tasted joy serene, divine,
And saw my griefs unfolding fair
As flowers in June's enchanted air.
So warm his words, so soft his sighs,
Such tender lovelight in his eyes,

"O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine,
For me the asphodels entwine!
Fold me within thy blessed calm;
Leave on my lips thy kiss of balm;
And let me slumber, pillowed low,
With Margaret where the violets blow!"

And still we talked. O'er cloudy bars
Orion bore his pomp of stars;
Within, the wood-fire fainter glowed;
Weird on the wall the shadows showed;
Till, in the east, a pallor born
Told midnight melting into morn

Then nearer to his side I prest,
Afraid to lose my angel-guest;—
A glance, a sigh—we did not speak—
Fond kisses on my brow and cheek,
A sudden sense of rapture flown,
And in the dawn I sat alone!
·······
'T is true his rest this many a year
Has made the village church-yard dear;
Tis true his stone is graven fair,
"Here lies, remote from mortal care;"—
I cannot tell how both may be,
But well I know he talked with me!

And oft, when other fires are low,
I sit within that midnight glow;
My head upon his shoulder leant,
His tender glances downward bent,
And win the dream to sweet delay
Till stars and shadows yield to day.