Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LOSS, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LOSS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dead here in florence! Yes, she died
Last Line: The mask fell off then. Yes, she died.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Death; Dead, The


DEAD here in Florence! Yes, she died.
The prophesying doctors lied
Who swore the South should save her life.
But no, she died, my little wife.

I brought her South; the whole long way,
She was as curious and as gay
As a young bird that tries its wing,
And halts to look at everything.

O sudden-turning little head,
Dear eyes -- dear changing, wistful eyes --
Your love, your eager life, now lies
Under this earth of Florence, dead.

All of her dead except the Past --
The finished Past, that cannot grow --
But that, at least, will always last
Mocking, consoling, Life-in-show.

Will that fade too? Seven days ago
She was alive and by my side,
And yet I cannot now divide,
The pallid, gasping girl who died
From her I used to love and know.

Only in moments lives the Past!
One like a sunlit peak stands out
Above the blurring mist and doubt
That creep about our dead so fast.

All night the train has rushed through France,
I watch the shaken lamp-light dance
About my darling's sleeping face.
And now the engine slackens pace
And staggers up the mountain side;
And now the depths of night divide
And let a lighter darkness through,
A tangible, dim smoke of blue
That lights the world, and is not Light
Before the dawn, beyond the night.

The vapour clings about the grass
And makes its greenness very green,
Through it the tallest pine-tops pass
Into the night, and are not seen.
A little wind begins to stir,
The haze grows colourless and bright,
Thicker and darker springs the fir,
The train swings slowly up the height,
Each mile more slowly swings the train,
Before the mountains, past the plain.

And through the light that is not day
I feel her now as there she lay
Close in my arms, and still asleep;
Close in my arms, so dear, so dear;
I hold her close, and warm, and near,
Who sleeps where it is cold and deep.

That is my boasted memory;
That, -- the impression of a mood,
Effects of light on grass and wood,
Such things as I shall often see.

But Her! God, I may try in vain,
I shall never see her again --
She will never say one new word,
Scarce echo one I often heard.
Even in dreams she is not quite here --
Flitting, escaping still. I fear
Her voice will go, her face be blurred
Wholly, as long year follows year.

Often enough I think I have got
The turn of her head and neck, but not
The face -- never the face that speaks.
My mind goes seeking, and seeks and seeks.

Sometimes, indeed, I feel her at hand,
Sometimes feel sure she will understand,
If only I do not look or think...
Out of an empty cup I drink!

Down Lung' Arno again to-day
I went alone the self-same way
I walked with her and heard her tell
What she would do when she was well.

All else the same. Upon the hill
White Samminiato watching still
Among its pointing cypresses.
And that long, farthest Apennine
Still lifts a dusky, reddish line
Against the blue. How warm it is!
And every tower and every bridge
Stands crisp and sharp in the brilliant air;
Only along the mountain ridge
And on the hill-spurs everywhere
The olives are a smoke of blue,
Until upon the topmost height
They pale into a livid white
Against the intense, clear, salient hue
Of that mid-heaven's azure light.

This, for one day, my darling knew.

We meant to rest here, passing through.
How pleased she was with everything!
But most that winter was away
So soon, and birds began to sing;
For all the streets were full of flowers,
The sky so blue above the towers --
Just such a day as it is to-day,
When in the sun it feels like May.

So here I pace where the sun is warm,
With no light weight dragging my arm,
Here in the sun we hoped would save --

Oh, sunny portal of the grave,
Florence, how well I know your trick!
Lay all the walls with sunshine thick
As paint; put colours in the air,
Strange southern trees upon your slopes;
And make your streets at Christmas fair
With flourish of roses; fill with hopes
And wonder all who gaze on you,
Loveliest town earth ever knew!
Then, presto! take them unaware
With a blast from an open grave behind --
The icy blast of the wind -- a knife
Thrust in one's back to take one's life.
Oh, 'tis an excellent, cunning snare,
For the flowers grow on and do not mind
(Who sees, if the petals be thickened and pocked?)
And the olive, and cypresses, and ilex grow on.
It is only the confident heart that is mocked,
It is only the delicate life that is gone!

How I hate it, all this mask!
Those beggars really seem to bask
In this mock sunshine; even I
Turn giddy in the blinding light.
It is all a pretence -- it is all a lie --
Have I not seen my darling die?

Those mocking, leering, thin-faced apes,
Who twang their sharp guitars all night,
They are but thin unreal shapes,
The figures of a mirage-show.
They do not really live, I know;
But once I heard them swear and fight,
"By God, the Assassin!" then they cried.
The mask fell off then. Yes, she died.





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