Poems (Cary)/Lost Light
For works with similar titles, see Lost Light.
LOST LIGHT.
So, close the window! gray and blank the skySlopes to the nightfall, and the wintry woodsStand black and desolate; I shall not seeSpring, like a sunrise running o'er the hills,Nor yet the lark, for love's insanityFly at the stars, singing his heart away. In other seasons, I was little usedTo miss the wild green boughs: thick flaws of rainFell round me like the moonlight. Once, I know,A mower brought me some red berries home,And in bright plats I wore them in my hair,Playing along the meadow-side all day.I wish that time were back. A foolish thought!Its faith and love are fallen to dead dustWhere hope sets slips of roses all in vain;And as the stormy, dull, and gusty eveShuts in the day, my day is closing too;The playing in the meadows is all done. Mine is the common error, to have given,For shallow possibilities, the straightAnd even chance of every probable good— From fields of flowers to have but singled outThe bright one that was deadly, and to striveThrough prayer and passion vainly to win backMy blind way into peace, crying to beNeedless of all excuse—to be a child,Treading cool furrows scented with crushed roots,To chase the stubble for the humming bird,And sing out with the homely grasshopper. That once sweet music, April's pleasant rain,Plashing against the roof, grown thick with moss,Comes to me as though muffled by the clods.The tall reeds slant together as the windsGo piping through them, shepherding the lambsWhere tiny fountains lie in hollow grounds,Rimmed round with uncropt daisies and bright grass.Birds mate and sing together, blossoming twigsSwing down with golden bees, the anthills swarm,And the black spider in his loom of limbsWeaves busily. The sad crow calls alone,The milk-maid plats her straw, the heifer's lowRuns through the twilight, quick the harmless batFlattens his thick damp wings against the pane,Love makes its lullaby, brown crickets runAlong the hearth-light, proud bright hollyhocksGrow in the village garden with the corn,Lilies o'ertop the meadows, rough wild treesSprout out with verdure; for the pleasant time,Glossy with purple plaits, out of their holesSnakes travel limberly; blood-hungry beastsLean their great foreheads close and lovingly; Moles wallow toward the light; the sentinel cockCries all the watches; yet no more the morn,Upright and white, smiles, gathering out the starsThat redden, crown-like, round her yellow hair,But, prone, along the earth, from hill to hill,Slips noiselike, like some earth-burrowing thing,That only lifts its pale throat in the sun. Oh, if I dared to say these blushes climbUp to my cheek from a heart full of sin,Something might yet be done—my blind eyes beCouched to some apprehension of delight.Only the bad go sidling to the truthThrough fate, necessity and evil chance,Saying, "I trifled with a tempting thing—Berry or leaf—an ugly-headed worm—Call it a viper—say I kissed its mouth,Or once, or twice, or oftener, if you will—And what of that, if it was but a partThat needs must be in life? Am I to blame?Shrinking, yet drawn along by baffling power,Even as the shamble's bloody engineryWinds close against the windlass the beast's head. Ay, who can be absolved by conscience so,Or bring the lost light back into the world!