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Poem by Alice Cary
Agatha to Harold
Come there ever memories, Harold, Like a half remembered song From the time of gladness vanished Down the distance, oh, so long! Come they to me -- not in sadness, For they strike into my soul, As the sharp axe of the woodsman Strikes the dead and sapless bole. Just across the orchard hill-top, Through the branches gray and bare, We can see the village church-yard -- I shall not be lonesome there. When the cold wet leaves are falling On the turfless mound below, You will sometimes think about me, You will love me then, I know. In the window of my chamber Is a plant with pale blooms crowned -- If the sun shines warm to-morrow, In that quiet church-yard ground I will set it; and at noontimes, When the school-girls thither wend, They will see it o'er me blossom And believe I had a friend. Knowest thou the time, oh Harold, When at many a green mound's head Read we o'er the simple records Love had written of the dead. While the west was faintly burning, Where the cloudy day was set, Like a blushing press of kisses -- Ah, thou never canst forget! "Thou art young" thou saidst, "thy future All in sunlight seems to shine -- Art content to crown thy maytime Out of autumn love like mine? Couldst thou see my locks a fading With no sorrow and no fears? -- For thou knowest I stand in shadows Deep to almost twice thy years." In that time my life-blood mounted From my bosom to my brow, And I answered simply, truly -- (I was younger then than now) -- "Were it strange if that a daisy Sheltered from the tempest stroke, Bloomed contented in the shadow Of the overarching oak?" When the sun had like a herdsman Clipt the misty waves of morn, By the breezes driven seaward Like a flock of lambs new-shorn; Thou hadst left me, and oh, Harold, Half in gladness, half in tears, I was gazing down the future O'er the lapses of the years; To what time the clouds about me -- All my night of sorrow done -- Should blow out their crimson linings O'er the rising of love's sun; And I said in exultation, "Not the bright ones in the sky, Then shall know a sweeter pleasure Than, my Harold, thou and I." Thrice the scattered seed had sprouted As the spring thaw reappeared, And the winter frosts had grizzled Thrice the autumn's yellow beard; When that lovely day of promise Darkened with a dread eclipse, And my heart's long clasped joyance Died in moans upon my lips. Silent, saw I other maidens To a thousand pleasures wed -- "Save me from the past, good angel!" -- This was all the prayer I said. Sometimes they would smile upon me As their gay troops passed me by, Saying softly to each other, "How is she content to die?" Oh, they little guess the barren Wastes on which my visions go, And the conflicts fierce but silent That at last have made me so. Shall the bright-winged bird be netted Singing in the open fields, And not struggle with the fowler: Long and vainly ere it yields -- Or the heart to death surrender Mortal hoping without strife? But the struggle now is ended -- Give me, God, a better life!
Alice Cary
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