Poem by Arthur Sherburne Hardy

Songs of Two

I

  Last night I dreamed this dream: That I was dead;
      And as I slept, forgot of man and God,
      That other dreamless sleep of rest,
      I heard a footstep on the sod,
      As of one passing overhead,--
  And lo, thou, Dear, didst touch me on the breast,
      Saying: "What shall I write against thy name
          That men should see?"
      Then quick the answer came,
          "I was beloved of thee."

II

      Dear Giver of Thyself when at thy side,
      I see the path beyond divide,
      Where we must walk alone a little space,
      I say: "Now am I strong indeed
      To wait with only memory awhile,
      Content, until I see thy face,--"
      Yet turn, as one in sorest need,
      To ask once more thy giving grace,
          So, at the last
      Of all our partings, when the night
      Has hidden from my failing sight
          The comfort of thy smile,
  My hand shall seek thine own to hold it fast;
  Nor wilt thou think for this the heart ingrate,
          Less glad for all its past,
      Less strong to bear the utmost of its fate.

III

  As once through forest shade I went,
  I heard a flower call, and bent--
  Then strove to go. Should love not spare?
  "Nay, Dearest, this is love's sweet share
  Of selfishness. For which is best,
  To die alone or on thy breast?
  If thou hast heard my call,
  Take fearlessly, thou art my guest--
      To give is all"
  Hush! O Love, thou casuist!

IV

  Ask me not why,--I only _know_,
  It were thy loss if I could show
  Thee cause as for a lesser thing.
  Remember how we searched the spring,
  But found no source,--so clear the sky
  Within its earth bound depths did lie,
        Give to thy joy its wings,
    And to thy heart its song, nor try
        With questionings
    The throbbing throat that sings.

V

  For in thy clear and steadfast eyes
  Thine own self wonder deepest lies,
  Nor any words that lips can teach
  Are sweeter than their wonder speech.
  And when thou givest them to me,
  Through dawns of tenderness I see,--
        As in the water-sky,
    The sun of certainly appear.
        So, _ask_ me why,
    For then thou knowest, Dear.

VI

      To give is more than to receive, men say.
      But thou hast made them one! What if, some day,
  Men bade me render back the gifts I cannot pay,--
      Since all were undeserved! should I obey?
      Lo, all these years of giving, when we try
      To own our thanks, we hear the giver cry;
      "Nay, it was thou who givest, Dear, not I."
          If Wisdom smile, let Wisdom go!
              All things above
  This is the truest; that we know because we love,
          Not love because we know.

VII

      Let it not grieve thee, Dear, that Love is sad,
      Who, changeless, loveth so the things that change,--
  The morning in thine eyes, the dusk within thy hair,
              Were it not strange
              If he were glad
          Who cannot keep thy heart from care,
          Or shelter from the whip of pain
          The bosom where his head hath lain?
          Poor sentinel, that may not guard
          The door that love itself unbarred!
              Who in the sweetness
      Of his service knows its incompleteness,
              And while he sings
  Of life eternal, feels the coldness of Death's wings.

VIII

  Stoop with me, Dearest, to the grass
  One little moment ere we pass
  From out these parched and thirsty lands,
  See! all these tiny blades are hands
  Stretched supplicating to the sky,
  And listen, Dearest, patiently,--
  Dost thou not hear them move?
  The myriad roots that search, and cry
      As hearts do, Love,
  "Feed us, or let us die!"

IX

  Beloved, when far up the mountain side
      We found, almost at eventide,
      Our spring, how far we did fear
  Lest it should dare the trackless wood
          And disappear!
  And lost all heart when on the crest we stood
      And saw it spent in mist below!
      Yet ever surer was its flow,
      And, ever gathering to its own
      New springs of which we had not known,
          To fairer meadows
  Swept exultant from the woodland shadows;
  And when at last upon the baffling plain
  We thought it scattered like a ravelled skein,--
          Lo, tranquil, free,
  Its longed-for home, the wide unfathomable sea!

X

  Thy names are like sweet flowers that grow
      Within a garden where I go,
      Sometimes at dawn, to see each one
      Life its head proudly in the sun;
          Sometimes at night,
      When only by the fragrant air,
          I know them there.
      And none are grieved or think I slight
      Their worth, if closest to my breast,
      This one I take which holds within its own
      Each single fragrance of the rest,--
          My friend, my friend!
      And as I loved it first alone,
      So shall I love it to the end,
  For none were half so dear were it not best.

XI

      My every purpose fashioned by some thought of thee,
  Though as a feather's weight that shapes the arrow's flight it be;
      No single joy complete in which thou hast no fee,
  Though thy share be the star and mine its shadow in the sea;
      Thy very pulse my pulse, thy every prayer my prayer.
  Thy love my blue o'erreaching sky that bounds me everywhere,--
      Yet free, Beloved, free! for this encircling air
  I cannot leave behind, doth but love's boundlessness declare.

XII

  Last night the angel of remembrance brought
  Me while I slept--think, Dear! of all his store
  Just that one memory I thought
  Banished forever from our door!
  Thy sob of pain when once I hurt thee sure.
  Then in my dream I suddenly was ware
  Of God above me saying: "Reach
      Thy hand to Me in prayer,
  And I will give thee pardon yet."
      Thou? Nay, she hath forgiven, teach
          Her to forget.

XIII

  Love me not, Dearest, for the smile,
  The tender greeting, or the wile
  By which, unconscious of its road,
  My soul seeks thine in its abode;
  Nor say "I love thee of thine eyes,--"
  For when Death shuts them, where thy skies?
          But love me for my love,
  Then am I safe from all surprise,
          And thou above
  The loss of all that dies.

XIV

      Dear hands, forgiving hands,
  There is no speech so sure as thing.
      Lips falter with so much
  To tell, eyes fill with thoughts I scarce divine,
          But thy least touch
          Soul understands.
      Dear giving, taking hands,
  There are no gifts so free as thine.
  One last gem from the heart of the mine,
  One last cup from the veins of the vine,
  From the rose to the wind one last sweet breath,
          Then poverty, and death!
          But thy dear palms
      Are richest empty, asking alms.

XV

      A little moment at the end
  Of day, left over in the candle light
  On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
      Too small to throw away,
          Too poor to keep!
  But it holds two words for thee, dear Friend,--
          Good-night, Good night!
  And so this remnant of the day,
      Left over in the candle-light
  On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
      Becomes too great to throw away,
          Too dear to keep!

XVI

  Beloved, when I read some fine conceit,
  Wherein are wrought as in glass
  The features love hath made so sweet,
  I marvel at so bold an art;
  Seeing thou art too dear to praise
  Upon the highway where men pass.
          For when I seek
          To tell the ways
      God's hand of tenderness
      Hath touched thine earthly part,
          Again I hear
  Thy first own cry of happiness,
  And, sweetest of God's sounds, the dear
  Remonstrance of thy giving heart,--
          And cannot speak!

XVII

      Across the plain of Time
  I saw them marching all night long,--
          The endless throng
  Of all who ever dared to fight with wrong.
  All the blood of their hearts, the prime
  And crown of their fleeting years,
  All the toil of their hands, the tears
  Of their eyes, the thought of their brain,
  For a word from the lips of Truth,
  For a glimpse of the scroll of Fate,
          Ere love and youth
          Were spent in vain,
      And even truth too late!
  Oh, when the Silence speaks, and the scroll
  Unrolls to the eye of the soul,
  What will it be that shall pay the cost
  Of the pain gone waste and the labor lost!
      And then, Dear, waking, I saw you---
          And knew.

XVIII

  We thought when Love at last should come,
  The rose would lose its thorn,
  And every lip but Joy's be dumb
  When Love, sweet Love, was born;
  That never tears should start to rise,
  No night o'ertake our morn,
  Nor any guest of grief surprise,
  When Love, sweet Love, was born.

  And when he came, O Heart of mine!
  And stood within our door,
  No joy our dreaming could divine
  Was missing from his store.
  The thorns shall wound our hearts again,
  But not the fear of yore,
  for all the guests of grief and pain
  Shall serve him evermore.

XIX

  Dost thou remember, Dear, the day
  We met in those bare woods of May?
  Each had a secret unconfessed,
  Each sound a promise, in each nest.
  Young wings a-tremble for the air,--
  How we joined hands?--not knowing where
      The springs that touch set free
          Should find their sea.
  Speechless--so sure we were to share
      The unknown good to be.

XX

  The woods are bare again. There are
  No secrets now, the bud's a scar;
  No promises,--this is the end!
  Ah, Dearest, I have seen thee bend
  Above thy flowers as one who knew
  The dying wood should bloom anew.
      Come, let us sleep, Perchance
          God's countenance,
  Like thine above thy flowers, smiles through
      The night upon us two.

1. In an Album
2. By a Grave
3. My Friend
4. On the Fly-Leaf of the Rubaiyat
5. Lullaby

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