Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/279

Then I always was too grave,—
 Liked the saddest ballads 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.

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.

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

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! If it be night,
 Keep the candles in my sight.

Are there footsteps at the door?
 Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?
Some one might be waiting for
 Some last word that I might say.
 Nay? So best!—So angels would
 Stand off clear from deathly road,—
 Not to cross the sight of God.