The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 113/February 1914/The Clinging Vine
For other versions of this work, see The Clinging Vine.
THE CLINGING VINE
Be calm? And was I frantic?You'll have me laughing soon. I'm calm as this Atlantic,And quiet as the moon; I may have spoken fasterThan once, in other days; For I've no more a master,And now—'Be calm,' he says.
Fear not,—fear no commotion,—I'll be as rocks and sand; The moon and stars and oceanWill envy my command; No creature could be stillerIn any kind of place Than I . . . No, I'll not kill her;Her death is in her face.
Be happy while she has it,For she'll not have it long;A year, and then you'll pass it,Preparing a new song.And I'm a fool for pratingOf what a year may bring,When more like her are waitingFor more like you to sing.
You mock me with denial, You dare to call me hard?You see no room for trialWhen all my doors are barred?You say, and you'd say dying,That I dream what I know,— And sighing, and denying,You'd hold my hand and go.
You scowl—and I don't wonder;I spoke too fast again; But you'll forgive one blunder,For you are like most men: You are,—or so you've told me,So many mortal times, That heaven ought not to hold meAccountable for crimes.
Be calm? Was I unpleasant?Then I'll be more discreet, And grant you, for the present,The balm of my defeat: What she, with all her strivingCould not have brought about,— You've done. Your own contrivingHas put the last light out.
If she were the whole story,If worse were not behind, I'd creep with you to glory,Believing I was blind; I'd creep, and go on seemingTo be what I despise. You laugh, and say I'm dreaming,And all your laughs are lies.
Are women mad? A few are,And if it's true you say—If most men are as you are—We'll all be mad some day. Be calm—and let me finish;There's more for you to know. I'll talk while you diminish,And listen while you grow.
There was a man who marriedBecause he could n't see; And all his days he carriedThe marks of his degree.But you—you came clear-sighted,And found truth in my eyes;And all my wrongs you've rightedWith lies, and lies, and lies.
You've killed the last assuranceThat once would have me strive To rouse an old enduranceThat is no more alive. It makes two people chillyTo say what we have said, But you—you'll not be sillyAnd wrangle for the dead.
You don't? You never wrangle?Why scold then,—or complain? More words will only mangleWhat you've already slain. Your pride you can't surrender?My name for that you fear? Since when were men so tender,And honor so severe?
No more—I'll never bear it.I'm going. I'm like ice. My burden? You would share it?Forbid the sacrifice! Forget so quaint a notion,And let no more be told; For moon and stars and oceanAnd you and I are cold.