How My Love Died.
The budding of a new-born flower,
The birth-page of a holy book,
The dawn of some untainted hour,
His first, fond, loving look.
The beaming of some fair, faint star,
That draws the thought-flush to my cheek —
It was a dream too holy far
For my young lips to speak.
I hid the flower within the deep
Of my glad heart, and then, meanwhiles,
To water it soft tears did weep,
Or sunned it with my burning smiles.
I read the book in secret hours,
And cherished it with careful thought,
And oh, what mighty, magic power
Were with its wondrous lessons wrought!
I drew that hour forth from the chain —
A silver link out from the steel —
It was a treasure, that was plain,
A charm for heart-joy and soul-weal.
I gazed upon the pallid star,
Exultant that its light was pale,
That other orbs, more glorious far,
Might draw all eyes from mine to fail.
It was a dream, a sweet wild dream;
Its very thought drew deeper blushes;
It lived in every transient gleam
Of his smiles’ dim unfrequent flushes.
That dream had lasted still, I trow,
And I dwelt still in shadow-land,
And fed on visions until now,
While healthier food was at my hand,
But that, one day, I heard his name
Coupled with mine, as apt to tread
Together without blame or shame,
Because our hands and hearts were wed.
That very moment I drew back;
The bloom fell from that lovely flower,
The book some thoughts I loved did lack,
And life had blurred that happy hour.
My star to a mere star resolved,
More lovely orbs were in the sky;
My dream to shadow’s shade dissolved,
And I was now as once was I.
Yet not as once: such shadows leave
Some trace of thorn-crowns on the head,
Some embryo wrinkles on the brow
Which heavier troubles deeper tread.
Menie Parkes, Poems, F. Cunninghame, Sydney, , pages 48-49
trow = (archaic) think; believe, suppose