Poems (Van Vorst)/Laurens Villa
LAURENS VILLA
"There is no happiness!" I cried. "Hush, hush!" she laughed, lying by my side. "I think I am too blest! The gods Will smite me with their jealous rods Upon thy breast!" . . . "Sweetheart," (she said,) "Art not content?" I hid my head In silence: whilst she laughed; all slow Saying,—"Oh, Love, since thou must know! When Laurens died, thy sword that let His life out, with his red blood wet Let in the light to me!" . . . I turned And kissed her, till the fires burned In flame to Eros. And she slept Until the hushed white morning crept And with unprisoned sunlight came To wake with matin sword of flame.
Half sleeping, I essayed to find Her lips: and with warm hands to bind Her fast with her bright hair; then watch The mellowing of the eaves and thatch Under the morning. . . . She was cold. I clasped within my trembling hold Beauty's bright lamp extinguishèd! Her lily limbs and flower head Were as the unsunned dawn is cold, And white as was the pleated heavy fold Of her close-clinging linen gown. Her eyelids safely folded down Over the azure shining thro' That mocked the heavenly sky, with blue! The fine red lip-line parted, showing Her small white teeth; and golden, glowing The splendid masses of her hair Wantoned their glory everywhere! Smiling she lay, her arms thrown wide As she would clasp on every side Happiness . . . ! This when morning came To wake us with its sword of flame!
God knoweth how I listened, close To her lips' lovely parting rose, Lest one fine breath should stir . . . and bid The uplifting of a heavy lid,Or wake again that silent heart Whence fell the linen folds apart . . . Under the pulseless hills of snow Where strayed the blue veins to and fro No breath should ever stir again! And then my grief broke forth like rain. Rang through the tomb-like house and shook The white doves in their rose-vine nook. None else to pain or grieve was there In the still villa anywhere. I lay until the dying day Pale as my cheeks, and cold and grey, Stole mourning o'er the horizon. And then, I feared to stay alone With Germaine, who lay there and smiled So still and gladly as a child In first sleep, whilst my tears had made Rivers upon her breast and head And she cared nothing! So I took My cloak and garment, from the hook Where hung her clothes. I wept, again Touching and kissing them. "Germaine!"I cried, and summoned thus the dead. I took the linen off the bed And laid one line of winding shroud Over my love: and weeping loud I looked where she lay smiling, glad,From head to feet, twilight yclad,Then I crept out—a grey old man.······ They hold me under curse and ban, I "killed this woman as she lay In my embrace!" This thing they say! But Germaine, could she speak, would still Their lisping lies . . . ! Their lisping lies . . . !"If love can kill" (Germaine would tell them) "why then he Killed me, forsooth, with loving me . . ."
Little it matters! I shall sleep In sleep like hers; but not so deep,For love was earth's last gift to her!The little cotton dress she wore With ribbons, hangs against the door . . .In the white villa, . . . still it is! . . . Only the doves were witnesses.