Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PHANTASMATA: STANZAS, by RICHARD SOLOMON GEDNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PHANTASMATA: STANZAS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Father, thy works are very fair
Last Line: And love him dearly evermore!
Subject(s): Love; Poetry & Poets


I.

FATHER, Thy works are very fair;
A joyaunce glad and passing bright
Thou givest us by day and night,
Beauty in Earth, and Sea, and Air.

The Sun smiles kindly on the Day,
The Earth is carpetted with flowers,
Soft perfumes lull the passing hours,—
Like a sweet dream Time floats away.

Men's minds released from Winter's pain,
As Nature clothes the Earth anew,
In thoughts of bright and joyous hue,
Spring up to greet their God again;

While poor hearts burdened wearily,
Forgetting now their deep distress,
Think that they have found happiness;
And Life that seemed so drearily

Outstretching into solitude,
Now shows a thousand sheaves to glean,
With nought of hindrance between,—
A mirage of emollitude!

II.

Such joy to my sad heart comes never.
There is an end to happiness,
But Sorrow's pit is bottomless—
Downward deepening, and forever.

All joy is lost, all hopes are flown;
My soul is like a stagnant stream,
It sleepeth in a bitter dream,
In life unloved, in death alone.

My heart is withering 'neath this blight;
My life droops downwards to decay;
I know no more the light of day,
I dwell in one Eternal Night.

Dark shadows wrap me where I stand;
My single oasis is passed,
Before me all is overcast,—
A gloomy sky, a desert land,

Onreaching outwards, far and far,
Is all the future I can see.
I don my robe of misery,
I turn for ever from the star

Whose worship fills my heart;—I know
That I have not the gift of tongue
As others have; that I am young,
And burdened with a thoughtful woe.

Still musing on the Poet's doom,—
A lonely heart, and separate;
A life without a friend or mate;
A spirit prisoned in a tomb.—

That I am silent, sad, and stern,
Too well I know; but, O my God!
I have knelt down where she hath trod,
And kissed her footprint; I inurn

Her slightest words within my heart,
As saints do whispers from on High.
What though the hours fleet swiftly by
And do not tarry? every part

Of every minute wings a thought
To her I love. And must this love,
That placed her e'en my God above,
Be cast aside as it were nought?

III.

The Voice of Fate comes unto me,
In accents low but awful-toned,—
"Weak spirit, vainly hast thou moaned,
Has she not said that it must be?

"Thou hast no gifts for womankind;—
A thoughtful brow, a silent tongue,
Can only win regard among
The devotees of Inner Mind;

"The poet's soul, the poet's art,
An admiration of the grace
God stamps upon a poet's face,
May win, hut cannot hold a heart.

IV.

"Thou murmurest in thy misery,
Thou sayest 'This thing need not have been;
Thou canst not make a grass-blade green,
And thou would'st alter God's decree?

"Anon thou comfortest thyself,
Thou sayest 'It has happened thus,
'As ups and downs to all of us,—
'The wheel may soon reverse itself.'

"Seed must be sown to harvest fruit;—
Love is not ruled by circumstance,
Nor heart attract to heart by chance,—
God's hand still sways his attribute.

"Believing well, remember well
That nought results of accident,
But as it happens it is meant.
'Tis He hath tolled thy love's sad knell;

"'Tis He hath led thee through these tears;
Let it suffice, that what is done
Is to an end—the course is run,
And thou hast ridden out the years."

V.

Thy will be done. I bow my head.
But leave me words—the thoughts that flit
Athwart my heart would shatter it,
Had they no vent by which to spread.

The brow that, aching through the day,
Must wear a constant masquerade
Of carelessness, and make parade
Of mirth when joy is far away,

Must pour the dammed-up flood of grief
Into the bosom of the night,
Or madden ere the morning light;
My heart must break or have relief.

Peace cannot dwell within my breast;
My soul is filled to overflow,—
Dark mournful shadows come and go,
And weep, and wail, and find no rest.

Thus sobbingly my songs arise
In whispers to the stars at night,
In broken murmurs to the light,
And scale the highest of the skies.

VI.

And is this all is left me?—Lays
Of sorrow for a blossom dead,
That, breathing promise, drooped its head
And withered in a few dark days?

No; I have still the memory
Of happiness more pure and deep
Than earth can show again to reap;
And though she slay reality,

It dies in flower, it lives in pod;
I clasp it warm within my heart,
I feel it is my better part,
The nearest of my soul to God!

VII.

And with my tears I'll nourish it
Until the germ becomes a root,
And springs and bears a golden fruit;
And she, perchance, discerning it,

When startled by the sound of song,
She glances round in after days,
And hears a mighty Hymn of Praise
Go up to heaven, full and strong;—

May feel the inner spirit move
The thought "Men reap where I have sown;
Shall I not gather in mine own—
The harvest of so great a love?"

And then, perhaps, her heart may turn
To those bright days of happiness,
When all to each than each was less;
And then—and then—who knoweth?—yearn

To heal the one she made so sore;
To free him from his bitter pain—
To nestle to his heart again,
And love him dearly evermore!





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