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Fragment III - Years After

by Victor James Daley

Fade off the ridges, rosy light,

Fade slowly from the last gray height,

And leave no gloomy cloud to grieve

The heart of this enchanted eve!

All things beneath the still sky seem

Bound by the spell of a sweet dream;

In the dusk forest, dreamingly,

Droops slowly down each plum'd head;

The river flowing softly by

Dreams of the sea; the quiet sea

Dreams of the unseen stars; and I

Am dreaming of the dreamless dead.

The river has a silken sheen,

But red rays of the sunset stain

Its pictures, from the steep shore caught,

Till shades of rock, and fern, and tree

Glow like the figures on a pane

Of some old church by twilight seen,

Or like the rich devices wrought

In mediaeval tapestry.

All lonely in a drifting boat

Through shine and shade I float and float,

Dreaming and dreaming, till I seem

Part of the picture and the dream.

There is no sound to break the spell,

No voice of bird or stir of bough;

Only the lisp of waters wreathing

In little ripples round the prow,

And a low air, like Silence breathing,

That hardly dusks the sleepy swell

Whereon I float to that strange deep

That sighs upon the shores of Sleep.

. . . . .

But in the silent heaven blooming

Behold the wondrous sunset flower

That blooms and fades within the hour,

The flower of fantasy, perfuming

With subtle melody of scent

The blue aisles of the firmament!

For colour, music, scent, are one;

From deeps of air to airless heights,

Lo! how he sweeps, the splendid sun,

His burning lyre of many lights!

See the clear golden lily blowing!

It shines as shone thy gentle soul,

O my most sweet, when from the goal

Of life, far-gazing, thou didst see,

While Death still feared to touch thine eyes,

Where such immortal light was glowing,

The vision of eternity,

The pearly gates of Paradise!

Now richer hues the skies illume:

The pale gold blushes into bloom,

Delicate as the flowering

Of first love in the tender spring

Of Life, when love is wizardry

That over narrow days can throw

A glamour and a glory! so

Did thine, my Beautiful, for me

So long ago; so long ago.

So long ago! so long ago!

Ah, who can Love and Grief estrange?

Or Memory and Sorrow part?

Lo, in the West another change,

A deeper glow: a rose of fire:

A rose of passionate desire

Lone burning in a lonely heart.

A lonely heart; a lonely flood.

The wave that glassed her gleaming head

And smiling passed, it does not know

That gleaming head lies dark and low;

The myrtle-tree that bends above,

I pray that it may early bud,

For under its green boughs sat we,

We twain, we only, hand in hand,

When Love was lord of all the land,

It does not know that she is dead

And all is over now with Love,

Is over now with Love and me.

Once more, once more, O shining years

Gone by; once more, O vanished days

Whose hours flew by on iris-wings,

Come back and bring my love to me!

My voice faints down the wooded ways

And dies along the darkling flood.

The past is past; I cry in vain,

For when did Death an answer deign

To Love's heart-broken questionings?

The dead are deaf; dust chokes their ears;

Only the rolling river hears

Far off the calling of the sea,

A shiver strikes through all my blood,

Mine eyes are full of sudden tears.

. . . . .

The shadows gather over all,

The valley, and the mountains old;

Shadow on shadow fast they fall

On glooming green and waning gold;

And on my heart they gather drear,

Damp as with grave-damps, dark with fear.

. . . . .

O Sorrow, Sorrow, couldst thou leave me

Not one brief hour to dream alone?

Hast thou not all my days to grieve me?

My nights, are they not all thine own?

Thou hauntest me at morning light,

Thou blackenest the white moonbeams;

A hollow voice at noon; at night

A crowned ghost, sitting on a throne,

Ruling the kingdom of my dreams.

. . . . .

Maker of men, Thou gavest breath,

Thou gavest love to all that live,

Thou rendest loves and lives apart;

Allwise art Thou; who questioneth

Thy will, or who can read Thy heart?

But couldst Thou not in mercy give

A sign to us, one little spark

Of sure hope that the end of all

Is not concealed beneath the pall,

Or wound up with the winding-sheet?

Who heedeth aught the preacher saith

When eyes wax dim, and limbs grow stark,

And fear sits on the darkened bed?

The dying man turns to the wall.

What hope have we above our dead?

Tense fingers clutching at the dark,

And hopeless hands that vainly beat

Against the iron doors of Death!