Poems (Stoddard)/The Tryst
For works with similar titles, see The Tryst.
THE TRYST.
IMPELLED by memory in a wayward mood,Reluctant, yearning, with a faithless mind,I sought once more a long neglected spot,A wooded upland bordered by the sea,Whose tides were swirling up the reedy sands,Or floating noiseless in the yellow marsh.My way was wild. The winds, awaking, smoteMy face, but as I passed a ruined wallBrambles and vines and waving blossoms dashedA frolic-welcome, like a summer rain.Shouldering the hills against the murky eastStood stalwart oaks, and in the mossy sodBelow the trembling birches whispered me,"Not here!" I reached the silence-loving pines, And lingered. The mists swept from the wooded hills,And, rolling seaward, hid the anchored ships.So, happy, dreaming an old dream again,Of keeping tryst in secret on the knoll,I wandered on, listening in dreamy mazeTo sounds I thought familiar,—the approachOf well-known footsteps in the leafy path,—A murmuring voice calling me by name!Through the pine shafts the sunless light of dawnStole. Day was come. My dream would be fulfilled!Above the hills the sky began to blaze,And ushering morn the west flushed rosy-red;Then, the Sun leaping from his bed of gold,Scattered cloud-banners, crimson, gray, and white.There was my shadow in the leafy pathAlone,—none was to keep the tryst with me! No voice, no step among the hills I heard.The joyous swallows from their nestlings flew,Mad in the light with song. Far out at seaThe white sails fluttered in the eager breeze,But Day was silent holding tryst with me,—My pilgrimage rewarded—faith restored.