Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TOO LATE, by AUGUSTA DAVIES WEBSTER Poet's Biography First Line: What dead! - and I was only yesternight Last Line: You are gone from me. Oh! Too late! Too late! Alternate Author Name(s): Home, Cecil; Webster, Mrs. Julia Augusta Subject(s): Death; Dead, The | ||||||||
WHAT dead!--And I was only yesternight Revolving eager schemes for my redemption Out of these depths where I have plunged myself, Thinking I saw her with her earnest eyes Smile like the angels on the penitent. And then, Oh God! just in my hopefulness, Then did the arrow pierce me--"she may die." But could I think that such an agony Could come upon me?--nay 'twas past belief. How could she die? Through the wild wintry night The crashing train rushed onwards, and I groaned Between my teeth "On! on! we scarcely move." And the white snow-shapes, peering thro' the gloom, Took forms like ghosts that beckoned, beckoned on; And the long shrieks and hissings and the clangings. As we whirred on, were sobs and bitter wails And hoarse strange voices crying "she may die!" And then I moaned aloud "She cannot die! I will not have her die!" I find her dead! Dead! oh my Amy dead! Too late! too late! I cannot kiss her pallid lips to life For one last long farewell. Look the blue lids Are sealed upon the eyes; they will not rise For one last gaze to show she loved me still. I did not close them. 'Twas not on my breast Her dying head was rested in that anguish The last life gave her--ah! it gave so many! It gave? I gave! Oh but one little breath, One moment of forgiveness, and I might Kneel down and pray beside her patiently, Kneel down and rise a less unworthy man. Yes she is dead--but do you say I killed her? Did you fold those thin hands upon her breast That I might see how wasted they had grown? Ah me! the ring sits loose on that shrunk finger. If I might dare to take it from her now, And wear it for a conscience, just to preach The lessons my dulled conscience trips at! No I am not worthy. Let it go with her. I will remember that in a lone grave My wife is wearing still her wedding ring, That I may know she is my own. Ah! child, Fresh from the meadows, lily-hearted child, If only you had never been my own, If I had left you in your lowliness, I should have lost your glory on my life But should have had this worst remorse the less, And you would still be singing in your home. Oh! what had I to do to drag you down To my unworth, and fancy, braggart fool! Because I shrieked my first in a tall room Panelled with portraitures of better men Than I who shame their race, and your mazed eyes Were opened on a dingy white-washed wall, That I could raise you--I, who was more far Beneath you than I'd sunk from my first self. Oh dreamer that I was! I took from you, My little one, your simple happiness And thought I could replace it from a heart That only dreamed the thing it should have been. And now you lie there, ghastly white and cold, And the gold locks I used to tease droop down By a thin cheek and round a wasted throat, And you are dead. Oh! if you could but hear! They of the strange new faith the Swedish saint Dreamed in his trances say that for three days Death is not where it seems, and the stiff corpse Might hear and understand the living still. Oh! if it could but be! if you could hear And know I ask forgiveness thus, oh thus Weeping. No you smile on a changeless smile Of bliss ineffable; you would not smile If you could see me weep, hear my wild sorrow. You lie there stony. I can never think I gave you so much comfort at the last As just to ask forgiveness. 'Tis too late; You are gone from me. Oh! too late! too late! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND CIRCE by AUGUSTA DAVIES WEBSTER |
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