Laurens Villa

"There is no happiness!" I cried."Hush, hush!" she laughed, lying by my side."I think I am too blest! The godsWill smite me with their jealous rodsUpon thy breast!" . . . "Sweetheart," (she said,)"Art not content?" I hid my headIn silence: whilst she laughed; all slowSaying,—"Oh, Love, since thou must know!When Laurens died, thy sword that letHis life out, with his red blood wetLet in the light to me!" . . . I turnedAnd kissed her, till the fires burnedIn flame to Eros. And she sleptUntil the hushed white morning creptAnd with unprisoned sunlight cameTo wake with matin sword of flame.

Half sleeping, I essayed to findHer lips: and with warm hands to bindHer fast with her bright hair; then watchThe mellowing of the eaves and thatchUnder the morning. . . . She was cold.I clasped within my trembling holdBeauty's bright lamp extinguishèd!Her lily limbs and flower headWere as the unsunned dawn is cold,And white as was the pleated heavy foldOf her close-clinging linen gown.Her eyelids safely folded downOver the azure shining thro'That mocked the heavenly sky, with blue!The fine red lip-line parted, showingHer small white teeth; and golden, glowingThe splendid masses of her hairWantoned their glory everywhere!Smiling she lay, her arms thrown wideAs she would clasp on every sideHappiness . . . ! This when morning cameTo wake us with its sword of flame!

God knoweth how I listened, closeTo her lips' lovely parting rose,Lest one fine breath should stir . . . and bidThe uplifting of a heavy lid,Or wake again that silent heartWhence fell the linen folds apart . . .Under the pulseless hills of snowWhere strayed the blue veins to and froNo breath should ever stir again!And then my grief broke forth like rain.Rang through the tomb-like house and shookThe white doves in their rose-vine nook.None else to pain or grieve was thereIn the still villa anywhere.I lay until the dying dayPale as my cheeks, and cold and grey,Stole mourning o'er the horizon.And then, I feared to stay aloneWith Germaine, who lay there and smiledSo still and gladly as a childIn first sleep, whilst my tears had madeRivers upon her breast and headAnd she cared nothing! So I tookMy cloak and garment, from the hookWhere hung her clothes. I wept, againTouching and kissing them. "Germaine!"I cried, and summoned thus the dead.I took the linen off the bedAnd laid one line of winding shroudOver my love: and weeping loudI looked where she lay smiling, glad,From head to feet, twilight yclad,Then I crept out—a grey old man.······They hold me under curse and ban,I "killed this woman as she layIn my embrace!" This thing they say!But Germaine, could she speak, would stillTheir lisping lies . . . !Their lisping lies . . . ! "If love can kill"(Germaine would tell them) "why then heKilled me, forsooth, with loving me . . ."

Little it matters! I shall sleepIn sleep like hers; but not so deep,For love was earth's last gift to her!The little cotton dress she woreWith ribbons, hangs against the door . . .In the white villa, . . . still it is! . . .Only the doves were witnesses.