A Christmas Vigil

Round the vast city draws the twilight gray;
I know men say
This evening is the eve of Christmas Day;
But what has Christmas-time to do with me,
Who live a shameful life out, shamelessly?
A creature now that doth not even yearn
From sin to turn;
Too blind, perchance, it may be to discern
God's mighty mercy, and the boundless love
That those paid, praying preachers tell us of.

Here he lies dead, with whom my shame began!
This is the man,
Through whom my life to such dishonor ran.
His was the snare in which my soul was caught;
Oh, the sweet ways wherein for love he wrought!
Yet God, not he, my wrath of soul shall bear,
God set the snare!
God made him lustful, and God made me fair.
O God! were not his kisses more to me
Than Christians' hopes of immortality?

O lovely, wasted fingers, lithe and long,
So kind and strong!
O lips, wherein all laughter was a song.
All song as laughter! Oh, the cold, calm face,
The speechless marble mouth, that had such ways
Of singing, that for very joy of it
My heart would beat
Almost as loud as when our lips would meet.
And all love's passion, hotter for its shame,
Set panting mouths and thirsting eyes on flame.

Thus, would I part his hair back from the brow;
But look you now,
What thing is left for me, save this, to bow
Myself unto him, as in days gone by,
To stretch myself beside him, and to die;
To crush my burning, aching lips on his,
In one long kiss;
And know how cold and strange a thing death is?
His lips are cold, but my lips are so hot,
That all death's fearful coldness chills them not.

Fast falls the night, and down the iron street.
Loud ring the feet
Of happy people, who pass on to meet
Fair sights of home; I hear the roll and roar
Of traffic, like a sea upon a shore.
One dying candle's pallid light is shed
Upon the bed
Whereon is laid my beautiful, cold dead, —
Mine, altogether mine, for two brief days!
Are not these hands his hands; this face his face?

And now I can recall the time gone by.
The pure fresh sky
Of spring, 'neath which we first met, he and I,
The smell of rainy fields in early spring.
The song of thrushes, and the glimmering
Of rain-drenched leaves by sudden sun made bright;
The tender light
Of peaceful evening, and the saintly night.
Sweet, still, the scent of roses; only this.
They had a perfume then which now I miss.

Yea, too, I can recall the night wherein
Did first begin
The joy of that intoxicating sin.
Late was the day in April, gray and still.
Too faint to gladden, and too mild to chill;
Hot lay upon my lips the last night's kiss,
The first of his:
I wandered blindly between shame and bliss;
And, yearning, hung all day about the lane,
Where, in the evening, he should come again.

Now, when the time of the sun's setting came,
The sky caught flame;
For all the sun, which as an empty name
Had been that day, then rent the leaden veil
And flashed out sharp, 'twixt watery clouds, and pale,
Then, suddenly, a stormy wind upsprang,
That shrieked and sang;
Around the reeling tree-tops, loud it rang,
And all was dappled blue, and faint, fresh gold,
Lovely and virgin, wild and sweet and cold.

Then through the wind I heard his voice ring out;
And half in doubt,
Trembling and glad, I turned, and looked about,
And saw him standing in my downward way,
Full in the splendor of the dying day.
Silent I stood a space, and then at last
Strong arms were cast
About me, and his burning spirit passed
Into my spirit, till the twain as one
Shone out together under passion's sun.

I felt that joy unnamable was near;
A great sweet fear
Fell all around me, and no thing was clear
To me save this, — that in his arms I lay,
And felt his kisses burn my soul away.
I heard the wild wind singing in my hair.
And saw the fair
Green branches tossing in the stormy air;
And, through the failing light, I heard a voice
That cried, " O soul, at least this night rejoice!"

Ah me! the shameless, limitless delight
Of that spring night!
The magic ways wherein, 'twixt dusk and light,
I wandered, dazed and faint with joy's excess —
Ah, God! what human creature shall express
That night's dear joy, the long thirst quenched at last,
All shame outcast,
The 'haven entered, and the tempest past?
O shameful, sacred night, whereby alone
I bear with life till life's last day be done!

But when the feverish night had passed away,
And faint and gray.
On wet, chill April fields calm broke the day,
I rose, and in an altered world had part;
Love, marred by shame, lay bitter at my heart.
Through all my daily rounds that day I went,
Till day was spent;
And with the night once more came sweet content.
And joy that shut out every thought of shame.
And made of infamy an empty name.

Then quickly came the waste, gold, summer days,
The blinding blaze
Of burning sunlight, and the sultry ways
Of breathless nights, wherein the moon seemed strange,
And with the scent of roses came the change;
Yea, when as naked blades sharp-edged and bright,
'Neath blasting light,
Sharp flashed the streams; when every coming night,
Solemn with moonlight, or with stars thrilled through.
Or quite unlit but passionately blue,

Was sweet as rest, — 'mid song and scent and flame,
To me there came
The sense of loss, and bitterness of shame.
Surely between his kisses he had said,
"O love! before the summer-time has fled
I will return, and thou with me shalt come
To a fair home."
My kisses answered, for my voice was dumb.
Ah, God! those terrible June days, wherein
No rapture came to hush the cry of sin.

O sickening perfume of those summer days!
O tree-girt ways
Wherein we wandered! O the happy place
Where first I burst on love, and love on me!
O sleepless nights when tears fell bitterly!
So died the Summer, and the Autumn sweet,
With languid feet,
And recollections of the by-gone heat
Came down to us; but still he came no more.
And then I knew my destiny was sure.

I know not how, at length, when hope was gone.
And shame had grown
Too sharp a thing to be endured alone,
I left the peaceful country far behind.
And to the mighty city came to find
Some opiate for pain, and found it, too.
Fresh passions grew
Within me; and a little while I knew
The bitter joys that set the blood on flame, —
So grief slays joy, and wretchedness slays shame.

But still, through every feverish night and day,
The old love lay
Hot at my heart, though he had gone his way,
As I had mine; sometimes of him I heard,
And how the world was by his spirit stirred.
Then came the news, how he lay dying here!
I shed no tear,
I only felt the time at length was near,
When meeting I should see his face again.
And feel, through all, I had not lived in vain.

And now it is two nights ago, since first
With eyes athirst
To see his face, resolved to know the worst,
I came in here, and stood beside his bed.
No look he gave me, and no word he said;
But I said, bowing down, and speaking low, —
"Two years ago
You slew my honor; and I come here now
To tell you, whether yet you die or live.
Lost as I am, I love you, and forgive."

He turned, and then I knew that he would speak;
Against my cheek
Hot beat the blood; I stood there dazed and weak.
He said: " O face and voice that I remember!
'T was July then, and now it is December;
Poor dove! that all God's hawks for prey have got.
Ah me! how hot
This fever burns, and she remembers not
The ways of love wherein last June we trod! —
They work their will, this woman and her God."

Thus, as towards ending of his speech he drew,
I only knew
Some other bitter mem'ry had come through
His thoughts of me, and set his soul adrift;
Then, as he backward fell, I saw him lift
Bright hollow eyes unto the wall, whereon
A picture shone, —
A picture now that from the wall has gone;
A portrait of a woman strange as fair,
With calm gray eyes, and wayward golden hair.

The pale, calm face, immovable and sad,
Such beauty had
As well might make with love a strong man mad.
The long sweet hands upon her breast were laid,
The full throat just a little back was swayed.
Its firm white beauty better to expose;
The mouth kept close
The spirit's secret of all joys and woes.
So calm and still he lay I thought he slept.
Till, bending nearer down, I knew he wept.

And then he said, as one who speaks in dreams, —
"O face that gleams
Upon me when in sleep my spirit seems
To walk with thine! O long-loved love, O sweet,
O vanished eyes, O unreturning feet!
O heart that all the tempest of my love
Could no way move!
O death, is not the end now sharp enough, —
To love her, and to lose her, and to die.
While she knows not how life is going by?

"Could she know all, I think she would arise.
And let her eyes,
Wherein the very calm of heaven lies.
Fall on my face; yea, too, I do believe.
So sweet her sweet soul is, that she would grieve
A little space, in silence sitting here,
To see draw near
Death's sea o'er which no light and land appear;
Yea, too, with words and touches she might make
The death-ward path smile as a flowering brake."

Then all his love came on him, and he cried, —
"O death! divide
My soul from thought of hers; O darkness! hide
The passionless cold face, and speechless mouth
By mine unkissed, that waste my soul with drought!
O love, and must I die unkissed by thee?
What man shall be
The chosen one to come 'twixt thee and me?"
Then forth into the air he stretched his hand.
As one who, drowning, strives to reach the land.

Upon his brow a trembling touch I laid.
And tearless said, —
"Lie down and rest." Then, as the rain is shed
When awful thunder-storms break up the heat,
My kisses on his lips and eyelids beat,
My fingers met and closed within his hair.
He was so fair;
And, like the unhoped granting of a prayer.
Such prayers as dying men for life must pray,
At length upon my hand his kisses lay.

Then by him, bowed with all my love, I fell,
And cried, " 'T is well,
Live yet, and in thy presence let me dwell!"
He smiled, and said, " O tender hands and kind,
O lovely, worshipped hands that now I find
So sweet, so sweet! O love, that bringest bliss,
What joy is this
To gain at last the heaven of thy kiss?"
And then he turned himself, gave thanks and sighed,
Nor spake again; and in the dawn he died.

My lips sealed up his eyes, my hands were spread
Beneath his head.
I stretched the lovely limbs upon the bed,
Folded the wasted hands upon the breast;
As there he lay in calm and frozen rest,
The drawn and rigid lips looked cold and stern.
That seemed to spurn
All joys and griefs; no soul was left to yearn
Within the hollow, dreamless, lampless eyes,
Whose death-look said the dead soul shall not rise.

I know not whether I did wrong or right,
But in the night
I came into his room, and raised the light
Unto the pictured face upon the wall
That looked on his, and was not moved at all;
I took it down, — the face indeed was fair, —
But, standing there,
I spurned it with my foot as God spurns prayer;
And lacking strength, not will, to spoil the face,
I cast it forth where none might know its grace.

And yet I think sometimes if he could know,
Loving her so, —
As men, O God, can love and bear with woe, —
He might be angry for the face downcast,
And for it come to hate me, at the last.
But now the heavy tread upon the stair
Of men who bear
Some strange thing up; they come, they will not spare.
O God! they come, and now the door goes back;
They smell of death, the thing they bear is black.