Poems (Cary)/Paul

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PAUL.
Crossing the stubble, where, erewhile, The golden-headed wheat had been,I saw, and knew him by his smile. Night, sad with rain, was flowing in—
I drew the curtains, soft and warm, And when the room was full of light,We sat—half listening to the storm, Half talking—all the dreary night.
From their wet sheds, we heard the moan Our oxen made—a pretty pair—And heard the dead leaves often blown In gusty eddies, here and there.
The dull-eyed spider ran along The smoky rafters; the gray mouseCrossed the bare floor; and his wild song The cricket made through all the house.
Twisting the brown hair into rings, Above his meditative eyes,I counted all the long-gone springs That we had sown with flowers; his sighs
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Came thick and fast, as well they might, But when I said, how on, and on,For his sake, I had kept them bright— The slow, reproachful smile was gone.
And seeing that my spoken truth Glowed in my silent looks, the same,All the proud beauty of his youth Back on his faded manhood came.
About my neck he clasped his arm, As in affection's morning prime,And said, how blest he was—that storm Was sweeter than the summer-time!
But when I kissed him back, and said— The embers never cast a gleamThrough our low cabin, half so red, Sleep vanished—all had been a dream.
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