Poems (Cary)/Parting and Meeting
PARTING AND MEETING.
Like music in a reed, the light Was shut up in the dim, wild night;And 'twixt the black boughs fell the snowing--The black March boughs together blowing, Till hill and valley all were white.
The windows of the old house glowed With the dry hickory, burning brightly, As in the old house burned it nightly;So little cared they that it snowed--The two my rhyme is of. If tears Or shadows filled the eyes, else lit With sunshine it were best unwrit,And all about sweet hopes and fearsWere best unsaid, too. Tares will grow In spite of the most careful sowing; We find them in the time of mowing,Instead of flowers, we all do know.
So it were better that I write No whit about the lady's sighing; 'T were better said she had been tying,To make it pretty for the night, Buds, white and scarlet, in her hair;— And that the ribbon she should wear Had sadly vexed her—not a hue, Purple nor carmine that would do;Or that the cowslips of the May, Her little hand had freely given— Nay, more, the sweetest star of heaven—To gain a rose the more that day For her sad cheek: so foolish runsIn all of us the blood of youth Ere wintry frosts or summer sunsBleach fancy's fabrics, and the truth Of sober senses turns aside The images once deified.
It was a time of parting dread—For middle night the cock was crowing,The black March boughs together blowing, The lady mourning to be dead;And idly pulling down the flowers, Tied prettily about her hair— Alas! she had but little careFor any bliss of future hours!That parting made the world all dim To her, which ever way she saw;I know not what it was to him— Haply but as the gusty flawThat went before the buds—if so,Hers was a doubly piteous woe! And years are gone, or fast or slow, And many a love has had its making Since these two parted, at the breakingOf daylight, whiter than the snow.
Again 't is March: the lady's brows Are circled with another lightThan that of burning hickory boughs, Which lit the house that parting night.And they have met: the eyes so sweet In the old time again she sees— Hears the same voice—and yet for theseHer heart has not an added beat. If there be tremblings now, or sighs,They are not hers; she feels no sorrowThat he will be away to-morrow, Nor joy that bridal mornings riseOut of his smiling—she is free! Oh, give her pity, give her tears!By one great wave of passion's sea, Drifted alike from hopes and fears.