Philumene to Aristides
And in the solitary dark I moan
For weariness, and sob all night alone
Vain prayers for help, and toss in vexed unrest.
And find no way to endure, for none is best;—
Then, suddenly, a spirit makes it plain
That through my fever thou art free of pain;
Thou sleepest safe, my friend ! I bear for thee
What is no anguish, nay, but joy for me—
Ay, joy; ay, glee;—such laughter in me wakes
That oftentime my swelling throat nigh breaks!
Ah, then no more I sorrow! Till at last
My fever-fit and thy relief be past.
When all my soul protests, and prays in vain
My ending torture may begin again.
Likewise, when I make merry among my friends
In song or laughter, soon my pleasure ends.
My soul is shaken with a storm of fears,
An anxious presage strains mine eyes to tears,
I faint and yearn with unexplained regret
For some prenatal blessing I forget.
Unless indeed so close our natures be,
Thy pain untold, unknown, is pain to me. . . .
So by thy joy of life, unknown, untold,
I, in the shadow of death, shall be consoled!
Lo now, it were no marvellous thing, should I,
For mine own sake, long in thy stead to die.
For am not 1 the prey of all thy pains?
Doth not thy fever burn and surge in my veins?
Indeed, my friend, I cannot even tell
If thou being dead, my life were possible.
But thou, O master and lord! O soul of me!
Hast no such double sense; my life to thee
Is needless, unrequired, save as a price.
Readily paid though poor, which shall suffice
To cheat the envious darkness of thy days.
But I to all the gods in heaven give praise
That I, a woman, none remembereth,
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