Second Song

How much I loved that way you hadOf smiling most, when very sad,A smile which carried tender hintsOf delicate tintsAnd warbling birds,Of sun and spring,And yet, more than all other thing,Of Weariness beyond all Words!

None other ever smiled that way,None that I know,--The essence of all Gaiety lay,Of all mad mirth that men may know,In that sad smile, serene and slow,That on your lips was wont to play.

It needed many delicate linesAnd subtle curves and roseate tintsTo make that weary radiant smile;It flickered, as beneath the vinesThe sunshine through green shadow glintsOn the pale path that lies below,Flickered and flashed, and died away,But the strange thoughts it woke meanwhileWere wont to stay.

Thoughts of Strange Things you used to knowIn dim, dead lives, lived long ago,Some madly mirthful MerrimentWhose lingering light is yet unspent,--Some unimaginable Woe,--Your strange, sad smile forgets these not,Though you, yourself, long since, forgot!

To-night the clouds hang very low,They take the Hill-tops to their breast,And lay their arms about the fields.The wind that fans me lying low,Restless with great desire for rest,No cooling touch of freshness yields.

I, sleepless through the stifling heat,Watch the pale Lightning's constant glowBetween the wide set open doors.I lie and long amidst the heat,--The fever that my senses know,For that cool slenderness of yours.

So delicate and cool you are!A roseleaf that has lain in snow,A snowflake tinged with sunset fire.You do not know, so young you are,How Fever fans the senses' glowTo uncontrollable desire!

And fills the spaces of the nightWith furious and frantic thought,One would not dare to think by day.Ah, if you came to me to-nightThese visions would be turned to naught,These hateful dreams be held at bay!

But you are far, and LonelinessMy only lover through the night;And not for any word or prayerWould you console my lonelinessOr lend yourself, serene and slight,And the cool clusters of your hair.

All through the night I long for you,As shipwrecked men in tropics yearnFor the fresh flow of streams and springs.My fevered fancies follow youAs dying men in deserts turnTheir thoughts to clear and chilly things.

Such dreams are mine, and such my thirst,Unceasing and unsatisfied,Until the night is burnt awayAmong these dreams and fevered thirst,And, through the open doorways, glideThe white feet of the coming day.

This man has taken my Husband's lifeAnd laid my Brethren low,No sister indeed, were I, no wife,To pardon and let him go.

Yet why does he look so young and slimAs he weak and wounded lies?How hard for me to be harsh to himWith his soft, appealing eyes.

His hair is ruffled upon the stoneAnd the slender wrists are bound,So young! and yet he has overthrownHis scores on the battle ground.

Would I were only a slave to-day,To whom it were right and meetTo wash the stains of the War away,The dust from the weary feet.

Were I but one of my serving girlsTo solace his pain to rest!Shake out the sand from the soft loose curls,And hold him against my breast!

Have we such beauty around our Throne?Such lithe and delicate strength?Would God that I were the senseless stoneTo support his slender length!

I hate those wounds that trouble my sight,Unknown! how I wish you lay,Alone in my silken tent to-nightWhile I charmed the pain away.

I would lay you down on the Royal bed,I would bathe your wounds with wine,And setting your feet against my headDream you were lover of mine.

My Crown is heavy upon my hair,The Jewels weigh on my breast,All I would leave, with delight, to shareYour pale and passionate rest!

But hands grow restless about their swords,Lips murmur below their breath,"The Queen is silent too long!" "My Lords,--Take him away to death!"