27.12.2010, 17:25
MARY — A REMINISCENCE
She died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays
Waved o'er the outlet of this garden-dell ;
Before the advent of these Autumn days
And dark unblossom'd verdure. As befel,
I from my window gazed, yearning to forge
Some comfort out of anguish so forlorn ;
The dull rain stream'd before the bloomless gorge,
By which, erewhile, on each less genial morn,
Our Mary pass'd, to gain her shelter'd lawn,
^^^ith Death's disastrous rose upon her cheek.
How often had I watch'd her, pale and meek,
Pacing the sward ! and now I daily seek
The track, by those slow pausing footsteps worn.
How faintly worn ! though trodden week by week.
And when I seek the chamber where she dwelt,
Near one loved chair a well-worn spot I see,
Worn by the shifting of a feeble knee
While the poor head bow'd lowly—it would melt
The worldling's heart with instant sympathy :
The match-box and the manual, lying there,
Those sad sweet signs of wakefulness and prayer,
Are darling tokens of the Past to me ;
The little rasping sound of taper lit
At midnight, which aroused her slumbering bird :
The motion of her languid frame that stirr'd
For ease in some new posture—tho' a word
Perchance, of sudden anguish, follow'd it ;
All this how often had I seen and heard !
She died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays
Waved o'er the outlet of this garden-dell ;
Before the advent of these Autumn days
And dark unblossom'd verdure. As befel,
I from my window gazed, yearning to forge
Some comfort out of anguish so forlorn ;
The dull rain stream'd before the bloomless gorge,
By which, erewhile, on each less genial morn,
Our Mary pass'd, to gain her shelter'd lawn,
^^^ith Death's disastrous rose upon her cheek.
How often had I watch'd her, pale and meek,
Pacing the sward ! and now I daily seek
The track, by those slow pausing footsteps worn.
How faintly worn ! though trodden week by week.
And when I seek the chamber where she dwelt,
Near one loved chair a well-worn spot I see,
Worn by the shifting of a feeble knee
While the poor head bow'd lowly—it would melt
The worldling's heart with instant sympathy :
The match-box and the manual, lying there,
Those sad sweet signs of wakefulness and prayer,
Are darling tokens of the Past to me ;
The little rasping sound of taper lit
At midnight, which aroused her slumbering bird :
The motion of her languid frame that stirr'd
For ease in some new posture—tho' a word
Perchance, of sudden anguish, follow'd it ;
All this how often had I seen and heard !