No More Learning

Not to have ever seen him, only seen
Such piteous token that he has been born,
Lived and grown up to beauty, the man who was meant
To sleep upon my breast, and dead before
The sweet custom of love could be between us!
To have but seen his face? --Is that enough
To make me clear he is my man indeed?
Why, sure there are tales bordering on my lot
In misery? --Of hearts who have been stabbed
By knowledge that their mates were in the earth,
Yet never could come near enough to be healed;
Of those who have gone longing all a life,
Because a voice heard singing or a gesture
Seen from afar gospell'd them of love;
And no more than the mere announcement had.
Ah, but all these to mine were kindly dealing;
For not till they'd trepann'd him out of life
Did he, poor laggard, come to claim my soul. --
O my love, but your ears played you falsely
When they were taken by Death's wily tunes!

* * * * *

Am I so hardly done to, who have seen
My lover's face, been near enough to worship
The very writing of his spirit in flesh?
For having that in my ken, I am not far
From loving with my eyes all his body.
What a set would his shoulders have, and neck,
To bear his goodly-purposed head; what gait
And usage of his limbs! --Ah, do you smile?
Why, even so I knew your smile would be,
Just such an over-brimming of your soul.
O love, love, love, then you have come to me!
How I have stayed aching for you! Come close,
Here's where you should have been long time, long time.
It is your rightful place. And I had left
Thinking you'ld come and kiss me over my heart!
Ah lad, my lad, they told me you were dead.


IV

_At Dawn. The Scottish Gate_.

_Mary (on her way to the gate, singing to herself)_.
As a wind that has run all day
Among the fragrant clover,
At evening to a valley comes;
So comes to me my lover.

And as all night a honey'd warmth
Stays where the wind did lie,
So when my lover leaves my arms
My heart's all honey.

But what have I to do with this? And when
Was that song put in hiding 'mid my thought?
I might be on my way to meet and give
Good morrow to my--Ah! last night, last night!
O fie! I must not dream so.

[_At the Gate_.
It _was_ I!