Upon this greying page you wrote A whispered greeting, long ago. Faint pencil-marks run to and fro Scoring the lines I loved to quote. A sea-shore of white, shoaling sand, Blue creeks zigzagging through marsh-grasses, Sand pipers, and a wind which passes Cloudily silent up the land. Upon the high edge of the sea A great four-master sleeps; three hours Her bowsprit has not cleared those flowers. I read and look alternately. It all comes back again, but dim As pictures on a winking wall Hidden save when the dark clouds fall Or crack to show the moon's bright rim. I well remember what I was, And what I wanted. You, unwise With sore unwisdom, had no eyes For what was patently the cause. So are we sport of others' blindness, We who could see right well alone. What were you made of - wood or stone? Yet I remember you with kindness. You gave this book to me to ease The smart in me you could not heal. Your gift a mirror - woe or weal. We sat beneath the apple-trees. And I remember how they rang, These words, like bronze cathedral bells Down ancient lawns, or citadels Thundering with gongs where choirs sang. Silent the sea, the earth, the sky, And in my heart a silent weeping. Who has not sown can know no reaping! Bitter conclusion and no lie. O heart that sorrows, heart that bleeds, Heart that was never mine, your words Were like the pecking Autumn birds Stealing away my garnered seeds. ALICE MEYNELl/s POEMS 59 No future where there is no past! cherishing grief which laid me bare, 1 wrapped you like a wintry air About me. Poor enthusiast! How strange that tumult, looking back. The ink is pale, the letters fade. The verses seem to be well made, But I have lived the almanac. And you are dead these drifted years, How many I forget. And she Who wrote the book, her tragedy Long since dried up its scalding tears. I read of her death yesterday, Frail lady whom I never knew And knew so well. Would I could strew Her grave with pansies, blue and grey, Would I could stand a little space Under a blowing, brightening sky, And watch the sad leaves fall and lie Gently upon that lonely place. So cried her heart, a feverish thing. But clay is still, and clay is cold, And I was young, and I am oldj 60 ALICE MEYNELL'S POEMS And in December what birds sing! Go, wistful book, go back again Upon your shelf and gather dust. I've seen the glitter through the rust Of old, long years, I've known the pain. I've recollected both of you, But I shall recollect no more. Between us I must shut the door. The living have so much to do. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PLANTATION BACCHANAL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO A PRIZE BIRD by MARIANNE MOORE GOOD-BYE DOROTHY GAYLE: ST. CLOUD, MINNESOTA by KAREN SWENSON THE SWAN AND THE GOOSE by AESOP SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 32 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CONTENTMENT, AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY ABOU BEN ADHEM by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN; FOR NIGHT AND MORNING by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE |