Poems (Clark)/Estranged

by Annie Maria Lawrence Clark

ESTRANGED

We stood in the early morning,
 We two, by the moss-grown spring,
And we said, "In the journey before us,
 Each to each we will fondly cling,
And love over all the pathway
 Shall a radiant glory fling;"

"That trust in the truth of the other
 Shall ever be perfect and sure,
For hearts that can love as we love,
 Will also be strong to endure;
And the faith that we pledge shall ever
 Be firm, unshaken and pure."

And down in the fountain before us
 Looked upward faces twain;
While our hearts held deeper fountains
 Mirroring each one face again,
One face to each held the dearest,
 And all other beauty was vain.

We gathered a cluster of blossoms
 From amongst the moss at our feet,
And folded them close in our bosoms,
 As tokens dear and sweet,
That "Forget-me-not" was the motto
 Each loving heart should repeat.

And then in the radiant sunshine,
 Hand fondly clasping hand,
We turned from the moss-edged fountain,
 To seek for a path o'er the strand,
That having been safely traversed,
 Would end in Love's beautiful land.

And we saw not at first, that between us
 A tiny streamlet sped,
Bearing out to the land before us
 A gift from the fountain head,—
For rushes and fragrant blossoms
 Quite shadowed its lowly bed.

And the days grew many and many,
 For the way was very long,
But the flowers still decked our bosoms,
 And love seemed pure and strong,
And the ripple and purl of the waters
 Was only to us as a song.

Yet still as at first, our clasping
 Of hands led us side by side,
But the stream unperceived grew wider,
 And sped with a swifter tide,
While even then in our blindness
 We watched the clear waves glide,

And said, that one or the other
 Would cross the brook ere long,
Before the shores receded,
 Or the waves grew fierce and strong;
This streamlet was naught to hearts like ours,
 Who deemed all doubt as wrong.

At last, a-weary with reaching
 For a hand-clasp over the tide,
We walked for the first time lonely,
 And laughed, as in merry pride
We questioned which should be yielding,
 And cross to the opposite side.

But swifter the rivulet glided,
 And the shores grew rough and steep;
The waves had a song no longer,
 But in grief seemed to sob and weep:
While the low, sweet words of our converse
 We had now in shouts to repeat.

And never a narrowing tide ebb,
 And never a bridge that spanned,
Brought us back the old time blessing
 Of clasping hand in hand;
Till the stream grew deep and mighty,
 A broad river through the land.

Then there came a time, when no longer
 Our loudest tones could be heard;
And to soothe this wearisome journey,
 Came never a spoken word:
Only a dirgelike murmur,
 Like the wail of a dying bird.

Still deeper and darker the waters,—
 Still swifter the current sped,
And looking afar o'er the distance,
 I saw, with surprise and dread,
That they merged in a boundless ocean,
 And I knew all hope was dead.

The "forget—me—nots" in my bosom
 Were bright in their fadeless hue,
But gone for aye was the hand—clasp,
 And the face I no more should view,
That beside my own in the moss—grown spring,
 Had smiled from the waters blue.

Since then, through days grown dreary,
 I have walked on the shore alone,
Looking all in vain for a footprint,
 Or listening for one dear tone:
While over my heart this parting
 Has the weight of a graveyard stone.