Time's Laughingstocks, and Other Verses

And the downlands were her father’s fief; she still might come and go there; —
So I rose, and said, “Agnette!”

With a little leap, half-frightened,
She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear
In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened,
She replied: “What —that voice? – here!”

“Yes, Agnette! – And did the occasion
Of our marching hither make you think I might walk where we two – ”
“O, I often come,” she murmured with a moment’s coy evasion,
“(’Tis not far), – and – think of you.”

Then I took her hand, and led her
To the ancient people’s stone whereon I had sat.  There now sat we;
And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her,
And she spoke confidingly.

“It is just as ere we parted!”
Said she, brimming high with joy. – “And when, then, came you here, and why?”
“ – Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when twin-hearted.”
She responded, “Nor could I.

“There are few things I would rather
Than be wandering at this spirit-hour – lone-lived, my kindred dead —
On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father:
Night or day, I have no dread.

“O I wonder, wonder whether
Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no? —
Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls together.”
I said, “Dear, we’ll dream it so.”

Each one’s hand the other’s grasping,
And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought,
A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping,
And contracting years to nought.

Till I, maybe overweary
From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress
For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery,
Sank to slow unconsciousness.

How long I slept I knew not,
But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise,
A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not,
Was blazing on my eyes,

From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill
All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet
Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and mole-hill,
And on trails the ewes had beat.

She was sitting still beside me,
Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand;
When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me
In her image then I scanned;

That which Time’s transforming chisel
Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well,
In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle —
Pits, where peonies once did dwell.

She had wakened, and perceiving
(I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay,
Up she started, and – her wasted figure all throughout it heaving —
Said, “Ah, yes: I am thus by day!

“Can you really wince and wonder
That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone,
As if unaware a Death’s-head must of need lie not far under
Flesh whose years out-count your own?

“Yes: that movement was a warning
Of the worth of man’s devotion! – Yes, Sir, I am old,” said she,
“And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into scorning —
And your new-won heart from me!”

Then she went, ere I could call her,
With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before,
And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller,
Till I caught its course no more.

True; I might have dogged her downward;
– But it may be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time
Disconcerted and confused me. – Soon I bent my footsteps townward,
Like to one who had watched a crime.

Well I knew my native weakness,
Well I know it still.  I cherished her reproach like physic-wine,
For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness
A nobler soul than mine.

Did I not return, then, ever? —
Did we meet again? – mend all? – Alas, what greyhead perseveres! —
Soon I got the Route elsewhither. – Since that hour I have seen her never:
Love is lame at fifty years.

A TRAMPWOMAN’S TRAGEDY