Wasted

I would it were done with and over,
This life with no goal, —
That bountiful darkness might cover,
My body and soul.

I 'm weary of living and loving;
I 'm weary of strife,
Of shadows incessantly moving
In light of my life.

I 'm weary of night-time and day-time,
Of things that go by;
I 'm weary of winter and May-time,
The sea, and the sky.

I look to the rest that comes after, —
The peace that endures,
Of a land wherein tears are as laughter.
And no love allures.

By no thought of a lady beloved.
But never possessed;
Is the spirit again ever moved
When lost in that rest?

On that day when you bid me farewell.
And no word I say;
You may bow yourselves o'er me, and tell
Of times gone away.

You may show me her portrait, and lay it
Here, just on my heart;
The poem she said, ye may say it.
And I shall not start.

You may say that she loved not at all,
Or loved overmuch;
You may say, " If love held him in thrall.
We knew not of such, —

"Had he striven and lived long enough,
This thing had not been;
We had found him another fair love.
To be his soul's queen."

I shall not assent nor deny, —
Say, do, what you will, —
On that day when I bid you good-by,
And my heart becomes still.

O my love, in whose love I abided.
Whose soul, like a star.
Shone out from the distance, and guided
My life from afar.

Having lived out my life for thee solely.
Renounced all for thee.
The death which I die shall be holy
And gracious to me.

O most beautiful, languishing face!
O peaceful gray eyes!
That beheld with prophetical gaze
The shadows which rise

'Twixt spirits that life could not sever,
Death only divide, —
Taking one where the lovers meet never,
Nor bridegroom claims bride, —

It is sweet through the wintry hours,
When thick the snow lies,
To think of warm airs, and fair flowers,
Green fields, and clear skies.

'T is sad when the summer is dying,
And nights become chill,
To think how the snow shall be lying
On valley and hill.

'T is sweet for the lovers that sunder,
If but for a day,
To think of their meeting, and wonder
What words each shall say.

So, love, through these dark hours of sorrow.
How peaceful it seems,
To think of the night without morrow,
The sleep without dreams.

On that day when Death bids me arise,
No longer to grieve,
I shall follow, nor look with sad eyes
On things that I leave;

I shall sleep, and forget altogether
Your voice and your face.
The passionate, splendid June weather.
Long nights, and long days,

Will come, and I shall not awaken
To think of the night.
The June night, when my soul was first shaken,
And thrilled by love's might.

Yet I see it so clearly to-day,
That night when I loved;
I remember the tree-covered way,
The sound, as you moved.

Of your robes sweeping over the grass;
The sound of your voice —
O my love, my own love, let them pass,
These ghosts of dead joys.

O Death! let me join them, and follow
Where no sorrows thrill:
Where to chambers all silent and hollow.
Comes nought that is ill;

Comes nought that is lovely or gracious;
Comes nought that can move.
The chamber, though narrow, is spacious
And lofty enough

For the tenant who lies without motion.
Mere ashes and dust,
No longer the thrall of emotion —
So, Lord, do we trust.

We trust, that is all; but who, living.
Hath knowledge to say
What gifts we may have of God's giving,
When life 's put away?

Who can say, after all, we shall sleep?
I may find death is vain.
I may wake to remember, and weep
To feel the old pain

As keen in my spirit as ever;
To long for love's joys:
For the music that comes again, never, —
The sound of your voice;

For the passionate lips that could thrill me;
The beat of the breast;
The peace of the soul that could still me,
And wrap me in rest.

Shall I thirst for old touches and kisses?
Ah, what shall I see?
Shall that possible life be as this is;
Or worse, it may be?

We may rove, being dead, through gray places,
With twilight above, —
Worn ghosts with pale, hungering faces,
Souls yearning for love, —

In lands where the wind never ranges,
The light never veers, —
A kingdom that knows not of changes
Through infinite years.

There, Dante, stern-featured, may wander
With sorrow suppressed.
And look o'er gray seas, and say, " Yonder,
My queen,, does she rest?

"Or moves she, like me, among shadows,
And sighs, "We were wrong;
Are these then the heavenly meadows
Proclaimed in thy song? '"

I may long, as I now long for quiet,
For trouble and strife,
The discord, the fever, and riot
Of actual life, —

Any sound that should free for a minute
My soul from that sound
Of a voice with my heart's music in it,
A voice that I found

Surpassing all Fancy invented,
A voice, the heart's cry,
A voice, wherein Laughter repented.
And failed in a sigh.

In the utter, eternal dismay
Of life never stirred.
Time may seem like one petrified day,
Transfixed at God's word.

But all this is barren of reason,
And useless as prayers;
We must live on, and wait for Death's season,
To know what it bears.