Littell's Living Age/Volume 137/Issue 1770/Two Sonnets

by Louise Chandler Moulton

TWO SONNETS.

HER LAUREATE.

I am, indeed, no theme with you for song —
⁠A poet you, yet not for me your praise —
⁠You crowned another woman with your bays,
Lifting your voice to heaven, triumphant, strong,
And fear by future rhymes to do her wrong:
⁠If I should walk beside you in your ways
⁠An echo would pursue us from old days,
And men would say, "He loved once, and for long!
So now without great love he is content,
⁠Since she is dead for whom he used to sing,
And daily needs demand their aliment."
⁠Thus some poor bird who strives with broken wing
To soar, then stoops, strength gone and glad life spent,
⁠To any hand that his scant food will bring.

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HEREAFTER.

In after years a twilight ghost shall fill
⁠With shadowy presence all thy waiting room —
⁠From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom,
Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill,
And the old longing that thou couldst not kill,
⁠Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom,
⁠Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom,
While she stands there and smiles, serene and still.
Thou canst not vex her then with passion's pain;
⁠Call, and the silence will thy call repeat,
⁠But she will smile there with cold lips and sweet,
Forgetful of old tortures, and the chain
That once she wore — the tears she wept in vain
⁠At passing from her threshold of thy feet.

Louise Chandler Moulton.
Macmillan's Magazine.