No More Learning

Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!

XIX.

And that hour--beneath the beech,
When I listened in a dream,
And he said in his deep speech
That he owed me all _esteem_,--
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.

XX.

I fell flooded with a dark,
In the silence of a swoon.
When I rose, still cold and stark,
There was night; I saw the moon
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seemed to wonder what I was.

XXI.

And I walked as if apart
From myself, when I could stand,
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand--
Somewhat coldly, with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a "Poor thing" negligence.

XXII.

And I answered coldly too,
When you met me at the door;
And I only _heard_ the dew
Dripping from me to the floor:
And the flowers, I bade you see,
Were too withered for the bee,--
As my life, henceforth, for me.

XXIII.

Do not weep so--Dear,--heart-warm!
All was best as it befell.
If I say he did me harm,
I speak wild,--I am not well.
All his words were kind and good--
_He esteemed me. _ Only, blood
Runs so faint in womanhood!

XXIV.

Then I always was too grave,--
Liked the saddest ballad sung,--
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces, who die young.
I had died, Dear, all the same;
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.

XXV.

We are so unlike each other,
Thou and I, that none could guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant verily to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.

XXVI.

I am pale as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root;
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus underfoot.
_I_, like May-bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou, like merry summer-bee,--
Fit that I be plucked for thee!

XXVII.

Yet who plucks me? --no one mourns,
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes!