Textarchiv - Louise Chandler Moulton

Love makes the Spring

mrbot — Fri, 09 Aug 2019 21:20:07 +0000

Has spring come back? Is this the May
That makes the air so bland to-day?
The wild sweet winds are glad to know—
The waiting flowers begin to blow,
Green things are blithe along the way.

"What happy spell," I hear them say,
"Has turned the Winter into May?"
Each to the other—"Do you know?
Has Spring come back?"

Ah, Love is he who warms the day,
And turns the Winter into May—
And happy things begin to grow,
Alive with Love's glad overflow,
And answer to his ardent ray—
"Spring has come back."

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Love Is Dead

mrbot — Sat, 06 Jul 2019 21:10:05 +0000

I heard one cry out strongly, "Love is dead!"
And then we went and looked upon his face,
Turned into marble by Death's final grace:
His silent lips, that once so vainly pled,
Smile now, as men smile being newly wed;
Since some strange joy Life's sorrows did efface
When Death's arms clasped him in supreme embrace,
All his long pain of living comforted.

And you would wake him? Dare you him recall
From Death's enamouring to Life's stern pain;
Make him again the old grief's hopeless thrall;
Bind him once more with the old clanking chain,
And goad him on his weary way again?—
Nay! let him rest with Death, the lord of all.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Louisa M. Alcott

mrbot — Sat, 06 Jul 2019 21:10:02 +0000

As the wind at play with a spark
Of fire that glows through the night;
As the speed of the soaring lark
That wings to the sky his flight;
So swiftly thy soul has sped
On its upward, wonderful way,
Like the lark, when the dawn is red,
In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead
Whom earth in the earth we lay,
While the bearers softly tread,
And the mourners kneel and pray;
From thy semblance, dumb and stark,
The soul has taken its flight—
Out of the finite dark,
Into the Infinite Light.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Laus Veneris

mrbot — Sun, 17 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

Pallid with too much longing,
White with passion and prayer,
Goddess of love and beauty,
She sits in the picture there,—

Sits with her dark eyes seeking
Something more subtle still
Than the old delights of loving
Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often
In her long, immortal years,
That she tires of the worn-out rapture,
Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her,
Done with her ancient pride;
For her head she found too heavy
The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor,
Bright with her glory of hair,
Sad that she is not mortal,—
Eternally sad and fair,

Longing for joys she knows not,
Athirst with a vain desire,
There she sits in the picture,
Daughter of foam and fire.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Last Year

mrbot — Sat, 16 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

You thought, O Love, you loved me then, I know;
For that I bless you, now when Love is cold,
Remembering how warm the tale you told,
While winds of autumn fitfully did blow,
And, by the sea's perpetual ebb and flow,
We wandered on together to behold
Noon's radiant splendor, or the sunset's gold,
Or beauty of still nights where moons hung low.

Your voice grew tender when you called my name;
I heard that voice to-day,—was it the same?—
The old-time music trembles in it yet.
Your touch thrilled through me like a sudden flame
And then Love's sweet and subtle madness came,
And glad lips clung that now to kiss forget.

II.

You surely must remember, though to-day
There is no spell to charm you in the past.
So dear the dream was that it could not last:
Too soon our pleasant skies were changed to gray;
The sun turned from our barren land away,
And all the leaves swept by us on the blast,
And all our hopes to that wild wind were cast—
For dead Love's soul there is no place to pray.

But still the old time lingers in our thought;
In our regretful dreams the old suns rise,
And from their shining, memory hath caught
Some lingering glory of that glad surprise
When Love rose on us like the sun, and brought
Our hearts their morning under last year's skies.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Legend of a tomb in Florence

mrbot — Fri, 15 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

Here he is, in marble, waiting by a tomb—
Strong-winged for flying, yet, the legends say,
Waiting till a maiden buried here below
Shall break forth and join him once again, some day.

Long ago she lived here, in this Town of Flowers—
She herself a blossom brighter than the rest—
Myrtles blue as Heaven, lilies saintly white,
Ne'er a one was worthy to bloom upon her breast.

Here he saw and loved her—he, the gallant Knight,
Loved this gracious Lady, fairer than the May;
Loved her, and won her, Flower of all Delight—
Then Death, the Robber, stole his love away.

By her grave he waited, years on weary years,
Sure that Love would sometime triumph over Fate,
Till at length, o'er-tired, he too must go to sleep;
Then he bade them carve him, still by her to wait—

But with wings for flying, so that when she came
From her narrow chamber he could bear her high,
Over seas and mountains, past the bars of Earth,
To a spacious dwelling somewhere in the sky.

Still the summons comes not—long their silent dream—
But the watching seraphs pity them, I know,
And the tomb will open, and the dead will rise,
And the Knight and Lady Heavenward will go.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Life's Day

mrbot — Thu, 14 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

Oh, could I know how long Life's day—
How near its end, or far away—
What space for mirth, what room for tears—
Then might I put aside my fears,
And for a little while be gay.

But now, I think, Death soon may stray
Hereward, and find me at my play,
And mock my laughter with his jeers—
Ah, could I know!

And so I tremble 'neath the sway
Of that arch Foe, who at me peers,
And hour by hour my covert nears,
Yet mocks me when I bid him say
How long for me may be Life's day.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

La Vie

mrbot — Wed, 13 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

Ah, brief is Life,
Love's short, sweet way,
With dreamings rife,
And then—Good-day!

And Life is vain—
Hope's vague delight,
Grief's transient pain,
And then—Good-night!

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Left Behind

mrbot — Sat, 09 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

Wilt thou forget me in that other sphere,—
Thou who hast shared my life so long in this,—
And straight grown dizzy with that greater bliss,
Fronting heaven's splendor strong and full and clear,
No longer hold the old embraces dear
When some sweet seraph crowns thee with her kiss?
Nay, surely from that rapture thou wouldst miss
Some slight, small thing that thou hast cared for here.

I do not dream that from those ultimate heights
Thou wilt come back to seek me where I bide;
But if I follow, patient of thy slights,
And if I stand there, waiting by thy side,
Surely thy heart with some old thrill will stir,
And turn thy face toward me, even from her.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909

Laura sleeping

mrbot — Fri, 08 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

Come hither and behold this lady's face,
Who lies asleep, as if strong Death had kissed
Upon her eyes the kiss none can resist,
And held her fast in his prolonged embrace!
See the still lips, which grant no answering grace
To Love's fond prayers, and the sweet, carven smile,
Sign of some dream-born joy which did beguile
The dreaming soul from its fair resting-place!

So will she look when Death indeed has sway
O'er her dear loveliness, and holds her fast
In that last sleep which knows nor night, nor day,
Which hopes no future, contemplates no past;
So will she look; but now, behold! she wakes —
Thus, from the Night, Dawn's sunlit beauty breaks.

Louise Chandler Moulton

1909