Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839/Agnes
7
TO AGNES.
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AGNES.
It is his hand—it is his words—
Too well I know the scroll,
Whose style, whose order, and whose shape
Are treasured in my soul.
For months I only asked to see
One line of his, in vain;
Alas ! its presence brings to me
But only added pain.
A fearful thing, the granted wish—
The very shape it takes,
By some strange mockery of our hope,
Another misery makes.
Day after day, the hour went by,
And never letter came;
Or rather, every letter else
But that which bore his name.
I wearied Heaven with my prayers,
I wasted life with tears,
While every morning brought me hopes,
And every evening fears.
How often have I said to friends,
Who sought to warn or cheer,
And told the folly of a love,
So desperate and so dear.
How often have I said, I know
The madness of the dream,
That flings its fate on one frail bark,
Alone on life’s dark stream.
That knows one only hope on earth,
One hope in heaven above,
That asketh not for happiness,
And only asks for love.
I loved—must love him—that ’twas vain
To reason or to chide—
That life, unless it gave me him,
Could nothing give beside.
Ah! never till it loves, the heart
Is conscious of its powers;
What knows the undeveloped spring
Of summer’s golden hours?
I saw him—and my inmost soul
Its stamp, his image, took;
The passion of a lifetime sprang
Upon a single look.
A sudden and a strange delight
Seemed eager at my heart,
A childlike pleasure, which to all
Its gladness must impart.
I found a thousand charms in life
Till then life never wore!
I marvelled, in my deep content,
I had been sad before.
I never knew what music was
Until his voice I heard;
And never beat my heart so fast
As at his lightest word.
I would have rather been his slave
Than reigned alone his queen;
He was my life—and wanting him
What would the world have been?
He shared the dream, or seemed to share—
Days, weeks, and months passed by.
Never more perfect happiness
Was seen beneath the sky.
We parted—not in doubt or fear—
I wondered he could part;
And the first sense of misery
Awakened in my heart.
I listened till I heard his step
Pass from the closing door;
The pang of death can but be like
The pang that then I bore.
Time measures many hours; for me,
He measured long and slow;
I thought the night would never end,
The day would never go.
I took no other note of time,
Than when his letters came.
How often did I ask of them,
Ah! does he feel the same?
A letter is an anxious thing,
Made up of hopes and fears;
And still we question does it mean
More than at first appears.
It never satisfies the heart—
We ask for something more.
Alas! we miss the loving eyes
That looked love’s truth before.
He ceased to write—day after day
I waited, and in vain;
Fears that were fancies turned to truth—
He never wrote again.
Words—what are words?—I have no words
To tell of my despair.
If ever death was felt in life,
Look in my heart—’twas there.
The summer past—the autumn past—
For all a world so wide,
I would not live those hours again—
I would that I had died.
Again I saw the well-known hand,
How my heart beat to see!
And can such letter be from him,
And can such be to me?
I will not say, where are the words
That once I used to find?
He may be changed—he may be cold—
How can he be unkind?
True love hath many enemies
Upon this weary earth,
Who cannot bear that others share
The light be giveth birth.
Doubts, fancies, fears, and jealousies,
These are the ghosts whose power
Scaring the spirit with affright,
Is on an absent hour.
There has been long and strange neglect,
And cold harsh words are here,
And yet an inward secret hope
Disputeth with my fear.
It is my deep entire love,
Fond, fervent, and alone,
Apart from all life’s lighter change
That answers for his own.
He cannot be so much beloved,
And yet not love again;
Strong is the subtle sympathy
That bindeth such a chain.
My life is flung upon a cast,
To lose it were to die.
Ah! let me only hear his voice,
Ah! let me meet his eye.
We then were happy—fancies, fears,
Will vanish when we meet;
I know that we shall meet again—
I know it will be sweet.
Thou lovest me—I know thou dost—
Despite this cold changed line;
The instinct strong in my own heart
Assureth me of thine.