LAURENS VILLA
"There is no happiness!" I cried.
"Hush, hush!" she laughed, lying by my side.
"I think I am too blest! The gods
Will smite me with their jealous rods
Upon thy breast!" . . . "Sweetheart," (she said,)
"Art not content?" I hid my head
In silence: whilst she laughed; all slow
Saying,—"Oh, Love, since thou must know!
When Laurens died, thy sword that let
His life out, with his red blood wet
Let in the light to me!" . . . I turned
And kissed her, till the fires burned
In flame to Eros. And she slept
Until the hushed white morning crept
And with unprisoned sunlight came
To wake with matin sword of flame.
"Hush, hush!" she laughed, lying by my side.
"I think I am too blest! The gods
Will smite me with their jealous rods
Upon thy breast!" . . . "Sweetheart," (she said,)
"Art not content?" I hid my head
In silence: whilst she laughed; all slow
Saying,—"Oh, Love, since thou must know!
When Laurens died, thy sword that let
His life out, with his red blood wet
Let in the light to me!" . . . I turned
And kissed her, till the fires burned
In flame to Eros. And she slept
Until the hushed white morning crept
And with unprisoned sunlight came
To wake with matin sword of flame.
Half sleeping, I essayed to find
Her lips: and with warm hands to bind
Her fast with her bright hair; then watch
The mellowing of the eaves and thatch
Under the morning. . . . She was cold.
I clasped within my trembling hold
Beauty's bright lamp extinguishèd!
Her lily limbs and flower head
Were as the unsunned dawn is cold,
And white as was the pleated heavy fold
Of her close-clinging linen gown.
Her eyelids safely folded down
Over the azure shining thro'
That mocked the heavenly sky, with blue!
The fine red lip-line parted, showing
Her small white teeth; and golden, glowing
The splendid masses of her hair
Wantoned their glory everywhere!
Smiling she lay, her arms thrown wide
As she would clasp on every side
Happiness . . . ! This when morning came
To wake us with its sword of flame!
Her lips: and with warm hands to bind
Her fast with her bright hair; then watch
The mellowing of the eaves and thatch
Under the morning. . . . She was cold.
I clasped within my trembling hold
Beauty's bright lamp extinguishèd!
Her lily limbs and flower head
Were as the unsunned dawn is cold,
And white as was the pleated heavy fold
Of her close-clinging linen gown.
Her eyelids safely folded down
Over the azure shining thro'
That mocked the heavenly sky, with blue!
The fine red lip-line parted, showing
Her small white teeth; and golden, glowing
The splendid masses of her hair
Wantoned their glory everywhere!
Smiling she lay, her arms thrown wide
As she would clasp on every side
Happiness . . . ! This when morning came
To wake us with its sword of flame!
God knoweth how I listened, close
To her lips' lovely parting rose,
Lest one fine breath should stir . . . and bid
The uplifting of a heavy lid,
Or wake again that silent heart
Whence fell the linen folds apart . . .
Under the pulseless hills of snow
Where strayed the blue veins to and fro
No breath should ever stir again!
And then my grief broke forth like rain.
Rang through the tomb-like house and shook
The white doves in their rose-vine nook.
None else to pain or grieve was there
In the still villa anywhere.
I lay until the dying day
Pale as my cheeks, and cold and grey,
Stole mourning o'er the horizon.
And then, I feared to stay alone
With Germaine, who lay there and smiled
So still and gladly as a child
In first sleep, whilst my tears had made
Rivers upon her breast and head
And she cared nothing! So I took
My cloak and garment, from the hook
Where hung her clothes. I wept, again
Touching and kissing them. "Germaine!"
I cried, and summoned thus the dead.
I took the linen off the bed
And laid one line of winding shroud
Over my love: and weeping loud
I looked where she lay smiling, glad,
From head to feet, twilight yclad,
Then I crept out—a grey old man.
······
They hold me under curse and ban,
I "killed this woman as she lay
In my embrace!" This thing they say!
But Germaine, could she speak, would still
Their lisping lies . . . !
"If love can kill"
(Germaine would tell them) "why then he
Killed me, forsooth, with loving me . . ."
To her lips' lovely parting rose,
Lest one fine breath should stir . . . and bid
The uplifting of a heavy lid,
Or wake again that silent heart
Whence fell the linen folds apart . . .
Under the pulseless hills of snow
Where strayed the blue veins to and fro
No breath should ever stir again!
And then my grief broke forth like rain.
Rang through the tomb-like house and shook
The white doves in their rose-vine nook.
None else to pain or grieve was there
In the still villa anywhere.
I lay until the dying day
Pale as my cheeks, and cold and grey,
Stole mourning o'er the horizon.
And then, I feared to stay alone
With Germaine, who lay there and smiled
So still and gladly as a child
In first sleep, whilst my tears had made
Rivers upon her breast and head
And she cared nothing! So I took
My cloak and garment, from the hook
Where hung her clothes. I wept, again
Touching and kissing them. "Germaine!"
I cried, and summoned thus the dead.
I took the linen off the bed
And laid one line of winding shroud
Over my love: and weeping loud
I looked where she lay smiling, glad,
From head to feet, twilight yclad,
Then I crept out—a grey old man.
······
They hold me under curse and ban,
I "killed this woman as she lay
In my embrace!" This thing they say!
But Germaine, could she speak, would still
Their lisping lies . . . !
"If love can kill"
(Germaine would tell them) "why then he
Killed me, forsooth, with loving me . . ."
Little it matters! I shall sleep
In sleep like hers; but not so deep,
For love was earth's last gift to her!
The little cotton dress she wore
With ribbons, hangs against the door . . .
In the white villa, . . . still it is! . . .
Only the doves were witnesses.
In sleep like hers; but not so deep,
For love was earth's last gift to her!
The little cotton dress she wore
With ribbons, hangs against the door . . .
In the white villa, . . . still it is! . . .
Only the doves were witnesses.