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Read Ebook: Three Sunsets and Other Poems by Carroll Lewis Thomson E Gertrude Emily Gertrude Illustrator
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Ebook has 203 lines and 13831 words, and 5 pages
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THREE SUNSETS 1
THE PATH OF ROSES 8
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH 15
SOLITUDE 23
FAR AWAY 26
BEATRICE 29
STOLEN WATERS 34
THE WILLOW-TREE 42
ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR 44
THE SAILOR'S WIFE 48
AFTER THREE DAYS 53
FACES IN THE FIRE 59
A LESSON IN LATIN 63
PUCK LOST AND FOUND 64
A SONG OF LOVE 67
FAIRIES IN BOAT 7
FAIRIES AND BOWER 14
SLEEPING FAIRIES 22
FAIRY RIDING ON CRAY-FISH 28
FAIRIES AND SQUIRREL 33
FAIRIES AND JONQUILS 41
FAIRIES AND FROG 47
FAIRY ON MUSHROOM 52
FAIRIES RIDING ON FISH 58
FAIRY AND WASP 62
FAIRIES UNDER MUSHROOM 66
THREE SUNSETS.
He saw her once, and in the glance, A moment's glance of meeting eyes, His heart stood still in sudden trance: He trembled with a sweet surprise-- All in the waning light she stood, The star of perfect womanhood.
That summer-eve his heart was light: With lighter step he trod the ground: And life was fairer in his sight, And music was in every sound: He blessed the world where there could be So beautiful a thing as she.
There once again, as evening fell And stars were peering overhead, Two lovers met to bid farewell: The western sun gleamed faint and red, Lost in a drift of purple cloud That wrapped him like a funeral-shroud.
Long time the memory of that night-- The hand that clasped, the lips that kissed, The form that faded from his sight Slow sinking through the tearful mist-- In dreamy music seemed to roll Through the dark chambers of his soul.
So after many years he came A wanderer from a distant shore: The street, the house, were still the same, But those he sought were there no more: His burning words, his hopes and fears, Unheeded fell on alien ears.
Only the children from their play Would pause the mournful tale to hear, Shrinking in half-alarm away, Or, step by step, would venture near To touch with timid curious hands That strange wild man from other lands.
He sat beside the busy street, There, where he last had seen her face: And thronging memories, bitter-sweet, Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place: Her footfall ever floated near: Her voice was ever in his ear.
He sometimes, as the daylight waned And evening mists began to roll, In half-soliloquy complained Of that black shadow on his soul, And blindly fanned, with cruel care, The ashes of a vain despair.
The summer fled: the lonely man Still lingered out the lessening days; Still, as the night drew on, would scan Each passing face with closer gaze-- Till, sick at heart, he turned away, And sighed "she will not come to-day."
So by degrees his spirit bent To mock its own despairing cry, In stern self-torture to invent New luxuries of agony, And people all the vacant space With visions of her perfect face.
Then for a moment she was nigh, He heard no step, but she was there; As if an angel suddenly Were bodied from the viewless air, And all her fine ethereal frame Should fade as swiftly as it came.
So, half in fancy's sunny trance, And half in misery's aching void With set and stony countenance His bitter being he enjoyed, And thrust for ever from his mind The happiness he could not find.
As when the wretch, in lonely room, To selfish death is madly hurled, The glamour of that fatal fume Shuts out the wholesome living world-- So all his manhood's strength and pride One sickly dream had swept aside.
Yea, brother, and we passed him there, But yesterday, in merry mood, And marveled at the lordly air That shamed his beggar's attitude, Nor heeded that ourselves might be Wretches as desperate as he;
Who let the thought of bliss denied Make havoc of our life and powers, And pine, in solitary pride, For peace that never shall be ours, Because we will not work and wait In trustful patience for our fate.
And so it chanced once more that she Came by the old familiar spot: The face he would have died to see Bent o'er him, and he knew it not; Too rapt in selfish grief to hear, Even when happiness was near.
And pity filled her gentle breast For him that would not stir nor speak The dying crimson of the west, That faintly tinged his haggard cheek, Fell on her as she stood, and shed A glory round the patient head.
Ah, let him wake! The moments fly: This awful tryst may be the last. And see, the tear, that dimmed her eye, Had fallen on him ere she passed-- She passed: the crimson paled to gray: And hope departed with the day.
The heavy hours of night went by, And silence quickened into sound, And light slid up the eastern sky, And life began its daily round-- But light and life for him were fled: His name was numbered with the dead.
THE PATH OF ROSES.
In the dark silence of an ancient room, Whose one tall window fronted to the West, Where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine, The sunset-glow was fading into night, Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands Upon a great clasped volume, and her face Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed, But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek, And her low-panted sobs broke awefully Upon the sleeping echoes of the night. Soon she unclasp'd the volume once again, And read the words in tone of agony, As in self-torture, weeping as she read:--
"And, battling for the True, the Right, From ruddy dawn to purple night, To perish in the midmost fight:
"Where hearts are fierce and hands are strong, Where peals the bugle loud and long, Where blood is dropping in the throng:
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