On through the pines ! The pillared woods, Where silence breathes sweet breath: O labyrinth, O sunless gloom, The other side of death! So soft a night was never made for sleep, To subtlest odours, pulses, visitings That touch our frames with wings too delicate To be discerned amid the blare of day. (She pauses near the window to gather some jasmine: then walks again.) Surely these flowers keep happy watch-their breath Is their fond memory of the loving light. I often rue the hours I lose in sleep : It is a bliss too brief, only to see This glorious world, to hear the voice of love, I need the curtained stillness of the night Painted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow Of softly hurrying brooks-' My only love— Must listen dumbly to great memory, Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. It must be sad to outlive aught we love. So I shall grieve a little for these days Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet, And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind Wails so in winter for the summers dead, And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva? These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow ! Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud ; Or do they only dream of wider life, Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall Compact of crystal splendour, and to flood Some wider space with glory? Poor, poor gems! We must be patient in our prison-house, And find our space in loving. Fedalma. These gems have life in them their Say what words fail of. So do many things— Don Silva. Yes, dearest, it is true. Hinda.-You love the roses-so do I. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush. Why will it not? Fedalma. No, my prattler, no! It never will rain roses : when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees. Our words have wings, but fly not where we would. Don Silva.-O God, it's true then !-true that you, A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are, The very air of heaven sifted fine Lest any mote should mar your purity, Have flung yourself out on the dusty way. Fedalma.-Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. The air was filled with music, with a song That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide- one Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words Tremble within my soul, and must be spoken. And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft Illumined the broad space. The joy, the life Before the people-be as mounting flame To all that burned within them! Nay, I danced; There was no longing: I but did the deed Being moved to do it. Oh! I seemed new-waked To life in unison with a multitude Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, Father, I choose! I will not take a heaven -0 No! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth A battle rages: Fate has carried me 'Mid the thick arrows: I will keep my stand Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast |