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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHRISTOPHER FOUND by AMY LEVY

First Line: AT LAST; SO THIS IS YOU, MY DEAR!
Last Line: "I NEVER KNEW HER NAME WAS ADELAIDE."
I.

AT last ; so this is you, my dear !
How should I guess to find you here ?
So long, so long, I sought in vain
In many cities, many lands,
With straining eyes and groping hands ;
The people marvelled at my pain.
They said : "But sure, the woman's mad ;
What ails her, we should like to know,
That she should be so wan and sad,
And silent through the revels go ?"
They clacked with such a sorry stir !
Was I to tell ? were they to know
That I had lost you, Christopher ?
Will you forgive me for one thing ?
Whiles, when a stranger came my way,
My heart would beat and I would say :
" Here's Christopher !" -- then lingering
With longer gaze, would turn away
Cold, sick at heart. My dear, I know
You will forgive me for this thing.
It is so very long ago
Since I have seen your face -- till now ;
Now that I see it -- lip and brow,
Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear ;
Last time was long ago ; I know
This thing you will forgive me, dear.



II.

There is no Heaven -- This is the best ;
O hold me closer to your breast ;
Let your face lean upon my face,
That there no longer shall be space
Between our lips, between our eyes.
I feel your bosom's fall and rise.
O hold me near and yet more near ;
Ah sweet ; I wonder do you know
How lone and cold, how sad and drear,
Was I a little while ago ;
Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir ;
But I have found you, Christopher.



III.

If only you had come before !
(This is the thing I most deplore)
A seemlier woman you had found,
More calm, by courtesies more bound,
Less quick to greet you, more subdued
Of appetite ; of slower mood.
But ah ! you come so late, so late !
This time of day I can't pretend
With slight, sweet things to satiate
The hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend,
I cannot blush and turn and tremble,
Wax loth as younger maidens do.
Ah, Christopher, with you, with you,
You would not wish me to dissemble ?



IV.

So long have all the days been meagre,
With empty platter, empty cup,
No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,
That if I crave -- is it over-eager,
The deepest draught, the fullest measure,
The beaker to the brim poured up ?



V.

Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above,
Says, and would make the matter clear,
That love divided is larger love ; --
We'll leave those things to the bards, my dear.
For you never wrote a verse, you see ;
And I -- my verse is not fair nor new.
Till the world be dead, you shall love but me,
Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.



EPILOGUE.

Thus ran the words ; or rather, thus did run
Their purport. Idly seeking in the chest
(You see it yonder), I had found them there :
Some blotted sheets of paper in a case,
With a woman's name writ on it : "Adelaide."
Twice on the writing there was scored the date
Of ten years back ; and where the words had end
Was left a space, a dash, a half-writ word,
As tho' the writer minded, presently
The matter to pursue.
I questioned her,
That worthy, worthy soul, my chatelaine,
Who, nothing loth, made answer.
There had been
Another lodger ere I had the rooms,
Three months gone by -- a woman.
"Young, sir ? No.
Must have seen forty if she'd seen a day !
A lonesome woman ; hadn't many friends ;
Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers.
Short in her temper -- eyes would flash and flame
At times, till I was frightened. Paid her rent
Most regular, like a lady.
Ten years back,
They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years back
The lady had a lover. Even then
She must have been no chicken.
Three months since
She died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just.
I did my best to tend her, yet indeed
It's bad for trade to have a lodger die.
Her brother came, a week before she died :
Buried her, took her things, threw in the fire
The littered heaps of paper.
Yes, the sheets,
They must have been forgotten in the chest ; --
I never knew her name was Adelaide."





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