By Ruth Margaret Muskrat
My heart is like an opal, flashing fire
And flaming gleams of pointed light
At thy approach; or lying cold and white
When thou art gone; robbed of a dream's desire
Is left moon-white and dull; no darting flame
Or sapphire gleam to mark a sweet suspense.
But only still, benumbed indifference
Unwaked at thy soft whisper of my name.
Come now, I tire of waiting to know love;
Teach me to scorn indifference white and dim
For I would drain fate's cup of joy or strife;
Would play to the lost chord the vibrant hymn
That passion sings; my heart lifted above
Dull apathy; pulsating; knowing Life.
A Thousand, thousand years ago I lived
And waited for your coming then, as now,
Before the wailing waters taught me how
To weep; nor never knew how sad I grieved,
Nor with what empty pain my soul, bereaved
Through need of you, lifted its throbbing brow;
Until the softly whispered plighted vow,
Of sighing trees, from branches silver-leaved
Swept through my soul and waked me from my sleep.
Since then I've roamed a thousand worlds, I think
Seeking your face, too hungry souled to wait
For you to come to me; too sad to weep:
While chains of ages pass me, link by link;
Knowing that I shall find you soon or late.
What is this nameless something that I want,
Forever groping blindly, without light,--
A ghost of pain that does forever haunt
My days, and make my heart eternal night?
I think it is your face I long for,
Your eyes that read my soul at one warm glance;
Your lips that I nay touch with mine no more
Have left me in their stead a thrusting lance
Of fire that burns my lips and sears my heart
As all the dreary wanton years wear through
Their hopeless dragging days. No Lover's art
Can lift full, heavy sorrow from my view
Or still my restless longing, purge my hate,
Because I learned I loved you, dear, too late.
Thou canst not turn away, beloved, so
Completely from my life; at thine own will
Withdraw the fullness of thy love until
My heart may no surcease of sorrow know
Through loving thee. The scarlet evening's glow
Long after the Lord Sun has gone; the thrill
Of his dear parting kiss must linger still
And point that crimson blush that pulses so.
Think you, beloved, after thou hast flung
Thy purple rove of love so close around
My life, that I could then forget? No wrong
So great but that in loving thee I found
The secret to redress; and sorrow's song
Is sweet because you loved me long ago.