The Raven; with literary and historical commentary/Isadore
ISADORE.
HOU art lost to me forever,—I have lost thee, Isadore,—
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more.
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine.
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine:
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!
Thou art dead and gone, dear, loving wife,—thy heart is still and cold,—
And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old.
Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark a night!
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with anxious care,
And yet they droop and fade away, as tho' they wanted air;
They cannot live without thine eyes, to glad them with their light,
Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright.
Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore.
Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,—
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone;
For if I say, to Heaven—then the poor things wish to learn,
How far is it, and where, and when their mother will return.
Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore.
Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place;
Like Heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face.
Our little ones are still and sad—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Their merry laugh is heard no more—they neither run nor play,
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer's day.
The spider weaves his web across the windows at his will;
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore ;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Alas ! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in spring,
When first thy love for me was told, and thou didst to me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through thy tears, pressing thy lips to mine,
In that old arbour, dear, beneath the overarching vine.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
The moonlight struggled through the vines, and fell upon thy face,
Which thou didst lovingly upturn with pure and trustful gaze.
The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Thy love and faith thou plighted'st then, with smile and mingled tear,
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here.
Nor angry word nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health;
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth;
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding hour,
As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Thou art gone from me forever, I have lost thee, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore.
If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,—
And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore.
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