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[winter-memory]

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.         Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.         Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.         Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

[winter-memory]

She dried her tears, and they did smile To see her cheeks’ returning glow; Nor did discern how all the while That full heart throbbed to overflow.

With that sweet look and lively tone, And bright eye shining all the day, They could not guess, at midnight lone How she would weep the time away.

[winter-memory]

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart forever, ever more? Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

[winter-memory]

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go.

[winter-memory]

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day.

[winter-memory]

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.

[winter-memory]

I LOITER by this surging sea, Here, by this surging, sooming sea, Here, by this wailing, wild-faced sea, Dreaming through the dreamy night; Yearning for a strange delight! Will it ever, ever, ever fly to me,           By this surging sea,           By this surging, sooming sea,           By this wailing, wild-faced sea?

I know some gentle spirit lives, Some loving, lonely spirit lives, Some melancholy spirit lives, Walking o’er the earth for me, Searching round the world for me! Will she ever, ever, ever hither come?           Where the waters roam,           Where the sobbing waters roam!           Where the raving waters roam!

All worn and wasted by the storms, All gapped and fractured by the storms, All split and splintered by the storms, Overhead the caverns groan, Gloomy, ghastly caverns groan!— Will she ever, ever, ever fill this heart?           Peace, O longing heart!           Peace, O longing, beating heart!           Peace, O beating, weary heart!

[winter-memory]

RIFTED mountains, clad with forests, girded round by gleaming pines, Where the morning, like an angel, robed in golden splendour shines; Shimmering mountains, throwing downward on the slopes a mazy glare Where the noonday glory sails through gulfs of calm and glittering air; Stately mountains, high and hoary, piled with blocks of amber cloud, Where the fading twilight lingers, when the winds are wailing loud; Grand old mountains, overbeetling brawling brooks and deep ravines, Where the moonshine, pale and mournful, flows on rocks and evergreens.

Underneath these regal ridges—underneath the gnarly trees, I am sitting, lonely-hearted, listening to a lonely breeze! Sitting by an ancient casement, casting many a longing look Out across the hazy gloaming—out beyond the brawling brook! Over pathways leading skyward—over crag and swelling cone, Past long hillocks looking like to waves of ocean turned to stone; Yearning for a bliss unworldly, yearning for a brighter change, Yearning for the mystic Aidenn, built beyond this mountain range.

Happy years, amongst these valleys, happy years have come and gone, And my youthful hopes and friendships withered with them one by one; Days and moments bearing onward many a bright and beauteous dream, All have passed me like to sunstreaks flying down a distant stream. Oh, the love returned by loved ones! Oh, the faces that I knew! Oh, the wrecks of fond affection! Oh, the hearts so warm and true! But their voices I remember, and a something lingers still, Like a dying echo roaming sadly round a far off hill.

I would sojourn here contented, tranquil as I was of yore, And would never wish to clamber, seeking for an unknown shore; I have dwelt within this cottage twenty summers, and mine eyes Never wandered erewhile round in search of undiscovered skies; But a spirit sits beside me, veiled in robes of dazzling white, And a dear one’s whisper wakens with the symphonies of night; And a low sad music cometh, borne along on windy wings, Like a strain familiar rising from a maze of slumbering springs.

And the Spirit, by my window, speaketh to my restless soul, Telling of the clime she came from, where the silent moments roll; Telling of the bourne mysterious, where the sunny summers flee Cliffs and coasts, by man untrodden, ridging round a shipless sea. There the years of yore are blooming—there departed life-dreams dwell, There the faces beam with gladness that I loved in youth so well; There the songs of childhood travel, over wave-worn steep and strand— Over dale and upland stretching out behind this mountain land.

“Lovely Being, can a mortal, weary of this changeless scene, Cross these cloudy summits to the land where man hath never been? Can he find a pathway leading through that wildering mass of pines, So that he shall reach the country where ethereal glory shines; So that he may glance at waters never dark with coming ships; Hearing round him gentle language floating from angelic lips; Casting off his earthly fetters, living there for evermore; All the blooms of Beauty near him, gleaming on that quiet shore?

“Ere you quit this ancient casement, tell me, is it well to yearn For the evanescent visions, vanished never to return? Is it well that I should with to leave this dreary world behind, Seeking for your fair Utopia, which perchance I may not find? Passing through a gloomy forest, scaling steeps like prison walls, Where the scanty sunshine wavers and the moonlight seldom falls? Oh, the feelings re-awakened! Oh, the hopes of loftier range! Is it well, thou friendly Being, well to wish for such a change?”

But the Spirit answers nothing! and the dazzling mantle fades; And a wailing whisper wanders out from dismal seaside shades! “Lo, the trees are moaning loudly, underneath their hood-like shrouds, And the arch above us darkens, scarred with ragged thunder clouds!” But the spirit answers nothing, and I linger all alone, Gazing through the moony vapours where the lovely Dream has flown; And my heart is beating sadly, and the music waxeth faint, Sailing up to holy Heaven, like the anthems of a Saint.

[winter-memory]

THE NIGHT grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane; There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain. The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat! Now, fan-wise from the ruddy fire, a brilliance sweeps athwart the floor; As, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:            As, streaming down the lattices,            The rain comes sobbing to the door.

Dull echoes round the casement fall, and through the empty chambers go, Like forms unseen whom we can hear on tip-toe stealing to and fro. But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears, Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years! And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more, While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:            While, streaming down the lattices,            The rain comes sobbing to the door.

The tempest-trodden wastelands moan—the trees are threshing at the blast; And now they come, the pallid shapes of Dreams that perished in the past; And, when we lift the windows up, a smothered whisper round us strays, Like some lone wandering voice from graves that hold the wrecks of bygone days. I tell ye that I love the storm, for think we not of thoughts of yore, When, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door?            When, streaming down the lattices,            The rain comes sobbing to the door?

We’ll drink to those we sadly miss, and sing some mournful song we know, Since they may chance to hear it all, and muse on friends they’ve left below. Who knows—if souls in bliss can leave the borders of their Eden-home— But that some loving one may now about the ancient threshold roam? Oh, like an exile, he would hail a glimpse of the familiar floor, Though, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door!            Though, streaming down the lattices,            The rain comes sobbing to the door! 

-  The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door by Henry Kendall