Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/To Edith May
TO EDITH MAY.
I have not seen thee, Edith May; they say thy face is fair—
But I know thy soul, that is not seen, and know it high and rare;
And I love thee by a sign that's given to every poet soul—
That spirit-linking sympathy beyond our own control.
There is a lyre within my heart as there is one in thine,
But a plaintive, low-voiced, murmuring thing is this frail lyre of mine;
Not grand, and wild, and proudly toned, yet scorning mirth withal,
Like the harps our fancy hears at times in some old knightly hall;
But softly glad and wildly sad, with a thousand nameless strings
That wake, as doth the rose-leaf wake, to the breath of unseen things.
Not less for this it echoes all the tones of higher skill,
And trembles most with rapture when another's touch can thrill.
For this I love thee, Edith May, thy spirit's voice I hear,
Like the strain of some grand melody resounding in my ear;
And visions rise before my eyes of hosts in armor bound,
And like a voice within a dream, I hear the clarion's sound;
And gorgeous banners broidered o'er with many a strange design,
With burnished lance and waving plume, deck out the shadowy line—
Anon the sunset's crimson cloud is fading o'er the hill,
And the chieftain's farewell bugle-note is sounding sad and shrill;
And standing on the castle wall I see a lady fair,
With pallid face, and waving scarf, and unbound raven hair;
While winding up the distant hill the long defile hath passed,
And the lady on the chief she loved hath fondly looked her last.
All old-time scenes of war and pomp, of love and minstrelsy,
Of kingly sports, and courtly dames, and knightly rivalry;
All by-gone themes once wont to stir the blood of princely men,
Swell my dreaming heart with lofty pride, and the dead past lives again;
And I love thy harp's grand tone that wakes my spirit's high romance,
And praise thee that thou hast for thine this rich inheritance.
I have a sister, Edith May, a sister pure and young,
With a holy heart, and gifted mind, and sweetly eloquent tongue;
And to her I bear a feeling which can have no earthly name,
But our souls are linked, our hearts are joined, and our loves are aye the same;
And a glorious world of dreams have we, a rare poetic world,
Where fancy's restless golden wings are glittering unfurled—
Where love sits like a household form, a dear, familiar thing,
And countless fairy visions float forever on the wing;
And here amid the whispered strains of spirit-minstrelsy,
I listen with my dreaming soul for one wild note from thee.
I have not seen thee, Edith May—they call thy youthful face
The lovely index of the soul, its poetry and grace;
And blest I deem that thou must be, so gifted, young, and fair,
Yet these alone fill not the heart if love be wanting there;
For hearts like ours, dear Edith May, need love as do the flowers
The breath of the caressing wind and heaven's genial showers:
And I would breathe a prayer to God to bless thy heart's young dream,
But with those peerless gifts of thine my prayer would idle seem.
Then fare-thee-well, young poetess! may not my waiting ear
List long in vain for that wild strain it loveth most to hear.