Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RECOLLECTIONS, by CHARLES SWAIN


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RECOLLECTIONS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: One I knew
Last Line: "and whisper'd, ""see, they come!"" till ached her wearied mind."
Subject(s): Memory


ONE I knew
Whose semblance painter's pencil never drew;
Droop, fall! -- as from the rose fades soft the dew.

Dying in tints of beauty -- leaf by leaf!
'Twas whisper'd love first call'd the canker there;
But if she grieved, none ever saw her grief,
The thought were torture: should a breath declare
That unkind love had left her cheek less fair!
And thus she fed on hope, who said away
From scenes too dear; that 'neath a foreign air
No more the worm within her breast should prey;
No more her spirit faint, her little strength decay!

Love? I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where time seems young -- and life a thing divine.
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine;
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss:
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.

Yes, this is love -- the steadfast and the true;
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew;
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
O, who can but recall the eve they met,
To breathe in some green walk their first young vow,
While summer flowers with evening dews were wet
And winds sigh'd soft around the mountain's brow.
And all was rapture then, which is but memory now.

Hers was a form to dream of -- slight and frail;
As though too delicate for earth -- too fair
To meet the worldly conflicts which assail
Nature's unhappy footsteps everywhere!
There was a languor in her pensive air,
A tone of suffering in her accents weak,
The hectic signet, never known to spare,
Darken'd the beauty of her thoughtful cheek,
And omen'd fate more sad than even tears might speak.

The angel-rapt expression of her eye --
The hair descending, like a golden wing,
Adown her shoulders' faded symmetry;
Her moveless lip, so pined and perishing, --
The shadow of itself; -- its rose-like spring
Blanch'd ere its time; for morn no balm might wake;
Nor youth with all its hope, nepenthe bring!
She look'd like one whose heart was born to break;
A face on which to gaze made every feeling ache!

The peasant, hastening to the vine-ripe fields,
Oft turn'd with pity towards the stranger maid,
Whose faltering steps approach'd yon mount, which yields
A view from shore to farthest sea display'd;
And there, till setting day, the maiden stray'd;
Watching each sail, if haply she might find
The distant ship which her dear friends convey'd;
And still hope gave her wings to every wind,
And whisper'd, "See, they come!" till ached her wearied mind.





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