Poems (Trask)/The Old Story

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

THE OLD STORY.

The hills were purple in the twilight haze,
 Eastward the full moon showed her silver rim,
And whitely o'er the chain of rock-bound bays
 The damp cool sea-fog on the breeze sailed in.

They stood together by the garden-gate,
 Lengthening the sweet sad moments as they might;
The west sky lost its crimson, and, like Fate,
 Upon their heads fell down the autumn night.

He held her hand, and all his ardent face
 Grew radiant at the touch so subtly sweet!
This old, old earth for him wore fresh new grace,
 And turned to love, and joy, beneath his feet!

He said his love was like the eternal hills,
 Steadfast, unchanging, as their line of blue!
And in the quiet of the evening stills
 He gave his solemn promise to be true!

She trusted him! Women were made to trust!
 It is their instinct! Strange they never think
That idols crumble oft to veriest dust,
 And joy's full cups break on the fountain's brink!
******
To-night, this winter night of frost and snow,
 She sits alone, sad-eyed, with silver hair!
Her cheek has lost its roundness and its glow,
 And all her features are deep-lined with care.

And he? Within a crowded city's mart
 He has a home of splendor grand and cold.
A black-haired woman reigns in pride within,—
 Her hair was like the sunshine's rippling gold.

Well, life is life, and very brief at best;
 We do not live, and leave grief's ways untrod!
Happy, if when we go to find our rest,
 Our sorrows have not made us false to God!