Pressed in an Old Copy of Spenser

Who prest you here? The Past can tell,When summer skies were bright above,And some full heart did leap and swellBeneath the white new moon of love.

Some Poet, haply, when the worldShowed like a calm sea, grand and blue,Ere its cold, inky waves had curledO'er the numb heart once warm and true;

When, with his soul brimful of morn,He looked beyond the vale of Time,Nor saw therein the dullard scornThat made his heavenliness a crime;

When, musing o'er the Poets olden,His soul did like a sun upstartTo shoot its arrows, clear and golden,Through slavery's cold and darksome heart.

Alas! too soon the veil is liftedThat hangs between the soul and pain,Too soon the morning-red hath driftedInto dull cloud, or fallen in rain!

Or were you prest by one who nurstBleak memories of love gone by,Whose heart, like a star fallen, burstIn dark and erring vacancy?

To him you still were fresh and greenAs when you grew upon the stalk,And many a breezy summer sceneCame back--and many a moonlit walk;

And there would be a hum of bees,A smell of childhood in the air,And old, fresh feelings cooled the breezeThat, like loved fingers, stirred his hair!

Then would you suddenly be blastedBy the keen wind of one dark thought,One nameless woe, that had outlastedThe sudden blow whereby 'twas brought.

Or were you prest here by two loversWho seemed to read these verses rare,But found between the antique coversWhat Spenser could not prison there:

Songs which his glorious soul had heard,But his dull pen could never write,Which flew, like some gold-wingèd bird,Through the blue heaven out of sight?

My heart is with them as they sit,I see the rosebud in her breast,I see her small hand taking itFrom out its odorous, snowy nest;

I hear him swear that he will keep it,In memory of that blessed day,To smile on it or over-weep itWhen she and spring are far away.

Ah me! I needs must droop my head,And brush away a happy tear,For they are gone, and, dry and dead,The rosebud lies before me here.

Yet is it in no stranger's hand,For I will guard it tenderly,And it shall be a magic wandTo bring mine own true love to me.

My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises,The while my fancy weaves her rhyme,Kind hopes and musical surprisesThrong round me from the olden time.

I do not care to know who prest you:Enough for me to feel and knowThat some heart's love and longing blest you,Knitting to-day with long-ago.