Rosaline

Thou look'dst on me all yesternight,Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was brightAs when we murmured our troth-plightBeneath the thick stars, Rosaline!Thy hair was braided on thy head,As on the day we two were wed,Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead,—But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!

The death-watch ticked behind the wall,The blackness rustled like a pall,The moaning wind did rise and fallAmong the bleak pines, Rosaline!My heart beat thickly in mine ears:The lids may shut out fleshly fears,But still the spirit sees and hears—Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly,A knowing some ill shape is nigh,A wish for death, a fear to die,—Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?A loneliness that is not lone,A love quite withered up and gone,A strong soul ousted from its throne,—What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nights as these,Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,And the leaves shiver in the trees,And then thou comest, Rosaline!I seem to hear the mourners go,With long black garments trailing slow,And plumes anodding to and fro,As once I heard them, Rosaline!

Thy shroud is all of snowy white,And, in the middle of the night,Thou standest moveless and upright,Gazing upon me, Rosaline!There is no sorrow in thine eyes,But evermore that meek surprise,—O God! thy gentle spirit triesTo deem me guiltless, Rosaline!

Above thy grave the robin sings,And swarms of bright and happy thingsFlit all about with sunlit wings,—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!The violets in the hillock toss,The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss;For nature feels not any loss,—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

I did not know when thou wast dead;A blackbird whistling overheadThrilled through my brain; I would have fled,But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!The sun rolled down, and very soon,Like a great fire, the awful moonRose, stained with blood, and then a swoonCrept chilly o'er me, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one,Each angel from his silver throneLooked down and saw what I had done:I dared not hide me, Rosaline!I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cryAgainst me to God's silent sky,I thought I saw the blue lips tryTo utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grinTo hear that voice all icy thinSlide forth and tell my deadly sinTo hell and heaven, Rosaline!But no voice came, and then it seemed,That, if the very corpse had screamed,The sound like sunshine glad had streamedThrough that dark stillness, Rosaline!

And then, amid the silent night,I screamed with horrible delight,And in my brain an awful lightDid seem to crackle, Rosaline!It is my curse! sweet memories fallFrom me like snow,—and only allOf that one night, like cold worms, crawlMy doomed heart over, Rosaline!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,Wherein such blessed memories,Such pitying forgiveness lies,Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!Woe's me! I know that love so highAs thine, true soul, could never die,And with mean clay in churchyard lie,—Would it might be so, Rosaline!