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diff --git a/old/55807-0.txt b/old/55807-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 19be2f2..0000000 --- a/old/55807-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1373 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses, by Edith Wharton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Verses - -Author: Edith Wharton - -Release Date: October 24, 2017 [EBook #55807] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, University -of South Carolina and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Illustration] - - VERSES. - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - VERSES. - - - “_Be friendly, pray, to these fancies of mine._” - - --BETTINE BRENTANO. - - [Illustration] - - - NEWPORT, R. I., C. E. HAMMETT, JR., 1878. - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Sonnets. - - - I. LE VIOL D’AMOUR. - - (An Organ-stop.) - - O soft, caressing sound, more sweet than scent - Of violets in woody hollows! Tone - As amorous as the ring-dove’s tender moan - Beneath the spreading forest’s leafy tent; - What mystery of earth or air hath lent - Thee that bewitching music, where the drone - Of Summer bees in dewy buds new blown - With trembling, fainting melody is blent? - What master did conceive thee, as the sound - Most fit to woo his lady from her rest, - What wakeful maiden in thy wooing found - The passion of her lover first exprest, - And from her silken pillows, beauty-crowned, - Stept forth and smiled on him who loved her best? - - _November 10th, 1875._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - - II. VESPERS. - - It is the vesper hour, and in yon aisle - Where fainting incense clouds the heavy air - My lady’s kneeling at her evening prayer, - Alone and silently; for in a file - The choristers have passed, and left her there, - Where martyrs from the tinted windows stare, - And saints look downward with a holy smile - Upon her meek devotions, while the day - Fades slowly, and a tender amber light - From coloured panes about her head doth play-- - Her veil falls like a shade, and ghostly white - Her clasped hands glimmer through the deepening gray; - So will she kneel, until from Heaven’s height - The Angels bend to hear their sister pray. - - _November 11th, 1875._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - - III. BETTINE TO GOETHE. - - “Be friendly, pray, with these fancies of mine.” BETTINE. - - Could youth discrown thy head of its gray hair, - I could not love it as I love it now; - Could one grand line be smoothed from thy brow, - ’Twould seem to me less stately and less fair. - O no, be as thou art! For thou dost wear - The signs of noble age that cannot bow - Thine intellect like thy form, and I who know - How each year that did visibly impair - Thy first fresh youth, left inwardly such grand - And gracious gifts, would rather have thee so-- - Believe me, master, who erect doth stand - In soul and purpose, age cannot lay low - Till he receive, new from the Father’s hand - The youth he did but outwardly forego. - - _April, 1876._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - Spring Song. - - “O primavera! Gioventù dell’ anno.” - - - The first warm buds that break their covers, - The first young twigs that burst in green, - The first blade that the sun discovers, - Starting the loosened earth between. - - The pale soft sky, so clear and tender, - With little clouds that break and fly; - The crocus, earliest pretender - To the low breezes passing by; - - The chirp and twitter of brown builders, - A couple in a tree, at least; - The watchful wisdom of the elders - For callow younglings in the nest; - - The flush of branches with fair blossoms, - The deepening of the faint green boughs, - As leaf by leaf the crown grows fuller - That binds the young Spring’s rosy brows; - - New promise every day of sweetness, - The next bright dawn is sure to bring; - Slow breaking into green completeness, - Fresh rapture of the early Spring! - - _May, 1876._ - - - - - Prophecies of Summer. - - - I found a wee leaf in the cleft - Where the half-melted ice had left - A sunny corner, moist and warm, - For it to bud, beyond all harm. - The wet, brown sod, - Long horned with ice, had slowly grown - So soft, the tender seedling blown - By Autumn winds, in earliest Spring - Sent through the sun-warmed covering, - Its little leaf to God. - - I found it there, beneath a ledge, - The dawning Spring time’s fairest pledge, - And to my mind it dimly brought - The sudden, joyous, leafy thought - Of Summer-time. - I plucked it from the sheltered cleft - Which the more kindly ice had left. - Within my hand to drop and die, - But for its sweet suggestions, I - Revive it in a rhyme. - - _1876._ - - - - - [Illustration] - - Song. - - - O Love, where are the hours fled, - The hours of our young delight? - Are they forever gone and dead, - Or only vanished out of sight? - - O can it be that we shall live - To know once more the joys gone by, - To feel the old, deep love revive, - And smile again before we die? - - Could I but fancy it might be, - Could I the past bring back again, - And for one moment, holding thee, - Forget the present and its pain! - - O Love, those hours are past away - Beyond our longing and our sighs-- - Perhaps the Angels, some bright day, - Will give them back in Paradise! - - _August, 1876._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - Heaven. - - - Not over roof and spire doth Heaven lie, - Star-sentinelled from our humanity, - Beyond the humble reach of every day. - And only near us when we weep or pray; - But rather in the household and the street, - Where loudest is the noise of hurrying feet, - Where hearts beat thickest, where our duties call, - Where watchers sit, where tears in silence fall. - We know not, or forget, there is no line - That marks our human off from our divine; - For all one household, all one family - In different chamberings labouring are we; - God leaves the doors between them open wide, - Knowing how life and death are close allied, - And though across the threshold, in the gloom, - We cannot see into that other room, - It may be that the dear ones watching there - Can hear our cry of passionate despair, - And wait unseen to lead us through the door - When twilight comes, and all our work is o’er. - - _January, 1877._ - - - - - [Illustration] - - “Maiden, Arise.” - - - She, whom through life her God forbade to hear - The voices of her nearest and most dear, - So that she dwelt, amid the hum and rush - Of cities, in a vast, eternal hush, - Yet heard the first low calling of the voice - That others had not heeded in the noise, - And rising, when it whispered “Come with me,” - Followed the form that others could not see, - Smiling, perchance, in death at last to hear - The voices of the Angels fill her ear, - While the great, silent void that closed her round - Was overflowed with rippled floods of sound, - And the dumb past in Alleluias drowned. - - _March, 1877._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - Spring. - - A Fragment. - - - HILDEGARD. - - It is the time when everything - Is flusht with presage of the Spring, - When every leaf and twig and bud - Feels new life rushing like a flood - Through greening veins and bursting tips; - When every hour a sunbeam slips - Across a sleepy flower’s mouth, - And wakes it, babbling of the South; - When birds are doubtful where or how - To hang their nests on trunk or bough, - And all that is in wood or croft - Beneath an influence balmy-soft - Towards the light begins to strive, - Feeling how good it is to live! - - - WALTHER. - - How beautiful thou standest there, - Thyself a prophet of the May! - The shining of thy golden hair - Would melt December’s snows away. - The roses on thy cheeks would woo - Forth envious blossoms from their sleeps. - And robins plume their breasts anew - To mock the crimson of thy lips. - - - HILDEGARD. - - But where would be the golden tresses, - With ribands bravely intertwined - And where the roses, that thy praises - Have opened like a Summer wind, - Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here, - To make these empty beauties dear? - The Spring would never deck her train - In such a fair and winsome wise - Did she not seek by smiles to chain - The sun her royal lover’s eyes. - - _1876._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - May Marian. - - - A BALLAD. - - In our town there dwelt a maiden - Whom the folk called Marian; - In her narrow gabled casement - All day long she sat and span. - - Till a gentleman came riding - Through our town one Summer day, - Spied May Marian at the casement, - Stole her silly heart away. - - Then she up and left her spinning, - Laid aside her russet gown, - In a footboy’s cap and mantle - Followed him to London town. - - There he led her to a mansion - Standing by the river side; - “In that mansion dwells the lady - Who is my betrothed bride; - - “Gif thou’lt be her serving-maiden, - Thou shalt wear a braw red gown, - Follow her to mass on Sunday - Through the streets of London town; - - “But if thou’lt not be her maiden, - Turn about and get thee home; - ’Tis not meet that country wenches - Through the city here should roam.” - - Not a word in answer spake she; - Weeping sore she turned away, - And alone she gat her homeward, - Travelling till the fall of day. - - To our town she came at gloaming, - Softly tirled she at the door; - Whispered: “let me in, sweet mother, - I will wander never more.” - - “I will turn me to my spinning, - I will don my russet gown; - Home is best for country lasses, - Men are false in London town.” - - But the door was shut against her, - To her prayer came answer none. - All night long alone she wandered, - Wandered weeping through our town. - - But at dawn she was aweary-- - In the street she laid her down; - And they found her dead at sunrise - With her head upon a stone. - - - MORAL. - - Ladies, listen to my ballad: - Maidens are too lightly won; - Home is best for country lasses, - Men are false in London town. - - _1876._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Opportunities. - - - Who knows his opportunities? They come - Not trumpet-tongued from Heaven, but small and dumb, - Not beckoning from the future’s promised land, - But in the narrow present close at hand. - They walk beside us with unsounding feet, - And like those two that trode the Eastern street - And with their Saviour bartered thought for thought, - Our eyes are holden and we know them not. - - _1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - “The Last Token.” - - A. D. 107. - - - (She speaks.) - - One minute more of life! Enough to snatch - This flower to my bosom, and to catch - The parting glance and signal overhead - From one who sits and waits to see me dead. - One minute more! Enough to let him see - How straight the message fell from him to me, - And how, his talisman upon my breast, - I’ll face the end as calmly as the rest.-- - Th’ impassive wall of faces seems to break - And shew one face aquiver for my sake * * * - How different death seems, with a hand that throws - Across the pathway of my doom a rose, - How brief and paltry life, compared to this - O’ertoppling moment of supremest bliss! * * * - Farewell! I feel the lions’ hungry breath, - I meet your eyes * * * beloved, this is death. - - _1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - Raffaelle to the Fornarina. - - (Sitting to him for a Madonna.) - - - Knot up the filmy strands of golden hair - That veil your breast, yet leave its beauties bare; - In decent ripples backward let it flow, - Smooth-parted sideways from your placid brow. - Unclasp the clinging necklace from your throat, - And let this misty veil about you float, - As round the seraphs of my visions swim - Faint, roseate clouds to make their radiance dim - And bearable to dazzled human eyes, - Uplifted in a rapture of surprise. - Lay off your armlets now, and cover up - With dark blue folds that shoulder’s dimpled slope; - Let naught appear to woo the grosser sense, - But ruling calm, and sacred innocence; - Subdue the pointed twinkle of your eye - Into a level, large serenity, - (Now comes the test) and let your mouth awhile - Be pressed into a faint, ascetic smile, - A pure reflection of the inward thought, - A chastened glow from fires celestial caught. - - _1878._ - - - - - Chriemhild of Burgundy. - - A Fragment. - - - In all the land was not a maid - Could match her beauty white and red; - No decent veil she need to wear, - Deep-mantled in her royal hair, - Dun ripples, shot all through and through - With fiery gold; her eyes were blue - And clearer than a Summer wave - That murmurs in some sunless cave, - And over them her brow shone white, - Like the first low star that pricks the night, - And under them her mouth did redden, - Like ripe red clover, honey-laden; - But white as pear-bloom was her chin, - An elvish dimple played therein; - Her breast stirred softly up and down - Beneath the folding of her gown - As if a bird were prisoned there - That fluttered for the outer air, - And round and comely was each limb, - As doth a royal maid beseem. - - _1878._ - - - - - [Illustration] - - Some Woman to Some Man. - - - We might have loved each other after all, - Have lived and learned together! Yet I doubt it; - You asked, I think, too great a sacrifice, - Or else, perhaps, I rate myself too dear. - Whichever way the difference lies between us, - Would common cares have helped to lessen it, - A common interest, and a common lot? - Who knows indeed? We choose our path, and then - Stand looking back and sighing at our choice, - And say: “Perhaps the other road had led - To fruitful valleys dozing in the sun.” - Perhaps--perhaps--but all things are perhaps, - And either way there lies a doubt, you know. - We’ve but one life to live, and fifty ways - To live it in, and little time to choose - The one in fifty that will suit us best, - And so the end is, that we part, and say: - “We might have loved each other after all!” - - _1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Lines on Chaucer. - - - No human pomp suggests his name, - No human pride builds up his fame, - But croft and meadow every where - His presence and his charm declare. - - He was an echo of the woods, - A breath of vernal solitudes, - An annalist of brooks and birds, - Interpreter of sylvan words; - - He worshipt nature where he trod - And still, through nature, worshipt God; - And spotless as the flower he praises - His name still blossoms with the daisies. - - [Illustration] - - - - - What We Shall Say Fifty Years Hence, OF OUR FANCY-DRESS QUADRILLE. - - (Danced at Swanhurst, August 8th, 1878.) - - - Do you remember, long ago, - Our Fancy-dress Quadrille? - Though many a year is past since then - It makes me joyous still, - To think what fun we used to have - When we were young and gay - And danced upon the Swanhurst lawn, - That happy Summer day. - - As Shepherd and as Shepherdess - We trod the graceful round, - In pinks and blues, with buckled shoes, - And crooks with ribands bound; - And as with joyous step we danced - We gaily sang in time - The foolish words and merry tune - Of some old Nursery rhyme. - - But often through the singing broke - A burst of laughter gay, - So young were we, so glad and free, - That happy Summer day! - And hand in hand would linger long, - As through the dance we moved, - For some of us were lovers then, - And some of us were loved. - - Ah, many a year is past since then, - And fled the merry throng, - And yet I hear, at times quite clear, - The echo of our song; - And though our days are Wintry now - I well remember still - The happy Summer day we danced - Our Fancy-dress Quadrille! - - _1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Nothing More. - - - ’Twas the old, old story told again, - The story we all have heard; - A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain-- - You know it word for word. - - A stolen picture--a faded rose-- - An evening hushed and bright; - A whisper--perhaps a kiss--who knows? - A handclasp, and “goodnight.” - - The sum of what we call “first love,” - That dreamflower rare and white, - That puts its magic blossom forth - And dies in a single night. - - _1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - June and December. - - - When our eyes grow dim and our hair turns grey - And we sit by the fire together, - ’Twill seem strange to talk in a shivering way - Of our Summertime’s rosy weather; - - When our eyes were bright, and our tresses smooth, - And the blood in our veins leapt red, - In the golden dawn of our long lost youth, - With the promise of life ahead. - - Shall we talk with smiles or with sighs that day - Of the years that are dead and gone, - Of the cares and the joys that have passed away - Like dewdrops beneath the sun? - - Nay, perchance we’ll see but the sunny side - Of the vision, in looking back, - And the trace of joys that are past may abide, - Where our sorrow have left no track; - - And perhaps both the joys and the cares may seem - In the light of that later day, - Like the phantom shapes of some beautiful dream - That has long ago passed away. - - But whate’er beside we may lose or hold - From the hoards of the golden past, - May the friends we loved in the days of old - To our hearts and thoughts cling fast, - - And before the days come that are coming soon, - And whose motto is “I remember,” - God grant us one vision of love and June - To brighten our life’s December. - - _October 7th, 1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - October. - - - A cold grey sea, a cold grey sky - And leafless swaying boughs, - A wind that wanders sadly by, - And moans about the house. - - And in my lonely heart a cry - For days that went before; - For joys that fly, and hopes that die, - And the past that comes no more. - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - A Woman I Know. - - - For a look from her eyes, for a smile of her mouth - Any man might well give the best years of his youth; - For the touch of her hand, for the warmth of her kiss - Might well barter his chances of infinite bliss; - - For her step is like sunlight that plays on the sea - And her bosom is snowy as snowy can be, - And her hair is a mantle inwoven with gold - Such as Queens might have worn in the legends of old; - - And her chin oh so white, and her cheek oh so red, - They might well drive a man who should look at them mad; - But beneath the bright breast where her heart ought to be, - What is there? Why a trap to catch fools, sir, like me! - - _October, 1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Daisies. - - - Daisies, does he love me? - Daisies, tell me true. - “Loves me * * * does not love me” * * * - That will never do! - Why, you know, you daisies, - Whatever you may say, - He stole that knot of riband - I wore the other day. - - Daisies, one more trial; - Let your petals fall. - “Loves me * * * does not love me * * * - Loves me,” after all! - Thank you, darling daisies, - And if it ends that way - I’ll wear you in a garland - Upon my wedding day. - - _1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Impromptu. - - (On being asked for some verses.) - - - I love the silver dawn of night - That melts the dark away; - The ecstacy of pallid light - That bathes the ended day; - - When leaf by leaf the slumbrous trees - Begin to talk anew; - And that sweet almoner, the breeze, - Fills every cup with dew; - - When on the fevered brow of toil - Eve lays a soothing palm, - And whispers softly to the soul: - “This hour was made for calm.” - - _1876._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - Notre Dame des Fleurs. - - To F. S. W. - - - Rosy, and fair, and fragrant, - Your vassals, the flowers, come, - Bearing a welcome to us - From the heart of your sunlit home; - Delicate garlands, wreathing - With brightness these dreary hours; - Red lips and white lips, breathing - Of you, our Lady of Flowers! - - Violets, blue as your eyes are - And roses, as soft as your cheek,-- - Daphne, sweet as your words are,-- - Primroses pallid and meek; - Feathery, waving fern-plumes, - And blossoms from Summer bowers, - Each one bearing a message - From you, our Lady of Flowers! - - Giver of brightness and beauty, - And Queen of this fragrant throng, - How shall we thank you or praise you - But feebly in this poor song? - We, whom you crown with blossoms, - Whom richly your kindness dowers, - We must be silent and love you,-- - Love you, our Lady of Flowers! - - _November 25, 1878._ - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - Translations from the German. - - THREE SONGS FROM THE GERMAN OF EMANUEL GEIBEL. - - - I. - - (“Mein Pferd geht langsam durch die nacht.”) - - My steed goes slowly through the night; - The moon is half in shadow, - With clouds that steal across her light - Like lambs across a meadow. - - A sudden stillness fills my heart, - With grief so lately movèd, - For in thy thoughts I have a part, - Tonight, my best belovèd. - - In every whisper of the wind - Thy greeting I discover; - O may’st thou in the breezes find - The kisses of thy lover. - - [Illustration] - - - [Illustration] - - II. - - (“Schöne Lilie.”) - - Spotless lily in the garden, - Fair and high on slender stem, - In the morning breeze thou wavest - Like a dainty silver flame. - - How thy chalice opens upward - To admit the sunlight’s gleam! - Scarce unto the earth belonging, - Part of Heaven dost thou seem. - - Ah, thou bearest greetings to me - From a being pure as thou, - Whom I called my spirit’s spirit, - Once with many a loving vow; - - She who taught me to discover - Love that lurks in sorrow’s smart; - Now, if I but think upon her - Sudden stillness fills my heart. - - [Illustration] - - - III. - - There stands the ancient gabled house; - The rooms therein how well I know! - They’re still as once they were, when first - I loved there, long ago. - - But, like the moon, times change, and hearts, - And strangers now the dwelling claim; - Another passion fills my breast; - Yet is the house the same. - - Today I went there to the feast; - Some memory made my bosom stir, - I heeded not the song and jest, - I only thought of _her_,-- - - Of all that we had meant to be, - Of all my vanisht youthful years, - And of the love that filled her eyes,-- - Till mine o’erflowed with tears. - - And when I roused me from the thought, - Alas, how changed did all things seem! - As though that dream had been my life, - And all my life a dream. - - - - - Longing. - - FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. - - (“Ach, aus dieses Thales Gründen.”) - - - From the shadows of the valley - With the chilly mist opprest, - Might I only find the outlet - I should count myself as blest. - There uprise the sunny mountains - Green and young and fair to see, - Had I wings to lift me upward, - To the mountains I would flee. - - Melodies are sweetly chiming, - I can catch the heavenly notes, - And a balmy flower fragrance - On the light breeze downward floats. - Golden fruits are shining, glowing, - Through the leafage, darkly green, - And the flowers that there are blowing - Winter’s snows have never seen. - - Ah, how blissful must the life be - In that sunshine without night; - Ah, how soft and how refreshing - Is the air that crowns that height! - Yet the stormy river stays me - That between us roars of death; - And its ghastly waves are lifted - Till my spirit shuddereth. - - There a bark all lonely tosses - Without steersman, on the tide; - Leap into it, bold, untrembling, - Sure some fate its sails will guide! - Thou must trust, and thou must venture, - For the gods will lend no hand; - Nothing but a wonder lifts thee - To thy golden Wonderland. - - [Illustration] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses, by Edith Wharton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES *** - -***** This file should be named 55807-0.txt or 55807-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/8/0/55807/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, University -of South Carolina and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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