Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AT HOME DURING THE BALL, by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AT HOME DURING THE BALL, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis hard upon the dawn, and yet
Last Line: Have beds below the willow!
Alternate Author Name(s): Meredith, Owen; Lytton, 1st Earl Of; Lytton, Robert
Subject(s): France; Travel; Journeys; Trips


'T IS hard upon the dawn, and yet
She comes not from the Ball.
The night is cold, and bleak, and wet,
And the snow lies over all.

I praised her with her diamonds on: --
And, as she went, she smiled.
And yet I sighed, when she was gone,
Above our sleeping child.

And all night long, as soft and slow
As falls the falling rain,
The thoughts of days gone long ago
Have filled my heart again.

Once more I hear the Rhine rush down,
(I hear it in my mind!)
Once more, about the sleeping town,
The lamps wink in the wind.

The narrow, silent street I pass:
The house stands o'er the river:
A light is at the casement-glass,
That leads my soul forever.

I feel my way along the gloom,
Stair after stair, I push the door:
I find no change within the room,
And all things as of yore.

One little room was all we had
For June and for December.
The world is wide, but O how sad
It seems, when I remember!

The cage with the canary-bird
Hangs in the window still:
The small red rose-tree is not stirred
Upon the window-sill.

Wide open her piano stands;
-- That song I made to ease
A passing pain while her soft hands
Went faintly over the keys!

The fire within the stove burns down;
The light is dying fast.
How dear is all it shines upon,
That firelight of the Past!

No sound! the drowsy Dutch-clock ticks.
O, how should I forget
The slender ebon crucifix,
That by her bed is set?

Her little bed is white as snow, --
How dear that little bed!
Sweet dreams about the curtains go,
And whisper round her head.

That gentle head sleeps o'er her arm
-- Sleeps all its soft brown hair:
And those dear clothes of hers, yet warm,
Droop open on the chair.

Yet warm the snowy petticoat!
The dainty corset too!
How warm the ribbon from her throat,
And warm each little shoe!

Lie soft, dear arm upon the pillow!
Sleep, foolish little head!
Ah, well she sleeps! I know the willow
That curtains her cold bed. --

Since last I trod that silent street
'T is many a year ago:
And, if I there could set my feet
Once more, I do not know

If I should find it where it was,
That house upon the river:
But the light that lit the casement-glass
I know is dark forever.

Hark! wheels below, ...my lady's knock!
-- Farewell, the old romance! --
Well, dear, you're late, -- past four o'clock! --
How often did you dance?

Not cooler from the crowning waltz,
She takes my half the pillow. --
Well, -- well! -- the women free from faults
Have beds below the willow!





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