Two Serenades

LATE on Christmas Eve, in the street alone,Outside a house, on the pavement-stone,I sang to her, as we'd sung togetherOn former eves ere I felt her tether.—Above the door of green by meWas she, her casement seen by me;But she would not heedWhat I melodiedIn my soul's sore need—She would not heed.

Cassiopeia overhead,And the Seven of the Wain, heard what I saidAs I bent me there, and voiced, and fingeredUpon the strings. . . . Long, long I lingered:

Only the curtains hid from herOne whom caprice had bid from her;But she did not come,And my heart grew numbAnd dull my strum;She did not come.

I SKIMMED the strings; I sang quite low;I hoped she would not come or knowThat the house next door was the one now dittied,Not hers, as when I had played unpitied;—Next door, where dwelt a heart fresh stirred,My new Love, of good will to me,Unlike my old Love chill to me,Who had not cared for my notes when heard:Yet that old Love cameTo the other's nameAs hers were the claim;Yea, the old Love came

My viol sank mute, my tongue stood still,I tried to sing on, but vain my will:

I prayed she would guess of the later, and leave me;She stayed, as though, were she slain by the smart,She would bear love's burn for a newer heart.The tense-drawn moment wrought to bereave meOf voice, and I turned in a dumb despairAt her finding I'd come to another there.Sick I withdrewAt love's grim hueEre my last Love knew;Sick I withdrew.

From an old copy.