Poems (Lowell, 1844, English edition)/Rosaline
ROSALINE.
Thou look'd'st on me all yesternight,Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was brightAs when we murmured our troth-plightBeneath the thick stars, Rosaline!Thy hair was braided on thy head,As on the day we two were wed,Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead,—But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!
The death-watch ticked behind the wall,The blackness rustled like a pall,The moaning wind did rise and fallAmong the bleak pines, Rosaline! My heart beat thickly in mine ears:The lids may shut out fleshly fears,But still the spirit sees and hears,—Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!
A wildness rushing suddenly,A knowing some ill shape is nigh,A wish for death, a fear to die,—Is not this vengence, Rosaline?A loneliness that is not lone,A love quite withered up and gone,A strong soul trampled from its throne,—What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?
'Tis drear such moonless nights as these,Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,And the leaves shiver in the trees,And then thou comest, Rosaline!I seem to hear the mourners go,With long black garments trailing slow,And plumes anodding to and fro,As once I heard them, Rosaline!
Thy shroud is all of snowy white,And, in the middle of the night,Thou standest moveless and upright,Gazing upon me, Rosaline!There is no sorrow in thine eyes,But evermore that meek surprise,—O, God! thy gentle spirit triesTo deem me guiltless, Rosaline!
Above thy grave the robin sings,And swarms of bright and happy thingsFlit all about with sunlit wings,—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!The violets on the hillock toss,The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss;For nature feels not any loss,—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!
Ah! why wast thou so lowly bred?Why was my pride galled on to wedHer who brought lands and gold, insteadOf thy heart's treasure, Rosaline? Why did I fear to let thee stayTo look on me and pass awayForgivingly, as in its MayA broken flower, Rosaline?
I thought not, when my dagger strook,Of thy blue eyes: I could not brookThe past all pleading in one lookOf utter sorrow, Rosaline!I did not know when thou wast dead;A blackbird whistling overheadThrilled through my brain; I would have fled,But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!
A low, low moan, a light twig stirredBy the upspringing of a bird,A drip of blood, were all I heard,—Then deathly stillness, Rosaline!The sun rolled down, and very soon,Like a great fire, the awful moonRose, stained with blood, and then a swoonCrept chilly o'er me, Rosaline
The stars came out; and, one by one,Each angel from his silver throneLooked down and saw what I had done:I dared not hide me, Rosaline!I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cryAgainst me to God's quiet sky,I thought I saw the blue lips tryTo utter something, Rosaline!
I waited with a maddened grinTo hear that voice all icy thinSlide forth and tell my deadly sinTo hell and heaven, Rosaline!But no voice came, and then it seemed,That, if the very corpse had screamed,The sound like sunshine glad had streamedThrough the dark stillness, Rosaline!
Dreams of old quiet glimmered by,And faces loved in infancyCame and looked on me mournfully,Till my heart melted, Rosaline! I saw my mother's dying bed,I heard her bless me, and I shedCool tears,—but, lo! the ghastly deadStared me to madness, Rosaline!
And then, amid the silent night,I screamed with horrible delight,And in my brain an awful lightDid seem to crackle, Rosaline!It is my curse! sweet memories fallFrom me like snow,—and only allOf that one night, like cold worms, crawlMy doomed heart over, Rosaline!
Thine eyes are shut: they never moreWill leap thy gentle words beforeTo tell the secret o'er and o'erThou couldst not smother, Rosaline!Thine eyes are shut; they will not shineWith happy tears, or, through the vineThat hid thy casement, beam on mine,Sunful with gladness, Rosaline
Thy voice I never more shall hear,Which in old times did seem so dear,That, ere it trembled in mine ear,My quick heart heard it, Rosaline!Would I might die! I were as well,Ay, better, at my home in hell,To set for aye a burning spell'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline!
Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,Wherein such blessed memories,Such pitying forgiveness lies,Than hate more bitter, Rosaline?Woe's me! I know that love so highAs thine, true soul, could never die,And with mean clay in churchyard lie,—Would it might be so, Rosaline!
1841.