That was I, you heard last night,
When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight
Tent of heaven, a planet small:
Life was dead and so was light.
Not a twinkle from the fly,
Not a glimmer from the worm;
When the crickets stopped their cry,
When the owls forbore a term,
You heard music; that was I.
Earth turned in her sleep with pain,
Sultrily suspired for proof:
In at heaven and out again,
Lightning! ——where it broke the roof,
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.
What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!
Singing helped the verses best,
And when singing’s best was done,
To my lute I left the rest.
So wore night; the East was gray,
White the broad—faced hemlock—flowers:
There would be another day;
Ere its first of heavy hours
Found me, I had passed away.
What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you ——“When life gropes
Feebly for the path where fell
Light last on the evening slopes,
”One friend in that path shall be,
To secure my step from wrong;
One to count night day for me,
Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see."
Never say ——as something bodes ——
“So, the worst has yet a worse!
When life halts 'neath double loads,
Better the taskmaster’s curse
Than such music on the roads!
”When no moon succeeds the sun,
Nor can pierce the midnight’s tent
Any star, the smallest one,
While some drops, where lightning rent,
Show the final storm begun ——
“When the fire—fly hides its spot,
When the garden—voices fail
In the darkness thick and hot, ——
Shall another voice avail,
That shape be where these are not?
”Has some plague a longer lease,
Proffering its help uncouth?
Can’t one even die in peace?
As one shuts one’s eyes on youth,
Is that face the last one sees?"
Oh how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate!
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood ——the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass!