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Perle Des Jardins.
By Madison Julius Cawein
What am I, and what is he
Who can cull and tear a heart,
As one might a rose for sport
In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made
All this love a bitter foam,
Blown about a life of loam
That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make
Hollow crystal where his face
Like a passion had its place
Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers! -
But these weary eyes are dry,
Tearless clear, and if I die
They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps; - let it weep!
Let it weep in sullen pain,
And this anguish in my brain
Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm,
And yon fields are glad and fair;
Many happy creatures there
Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still,
And the woodland stream is dark
Where the lily rocks its barque
Just below the mill.
If they found me icy there
'Mid the lilies and pale whorls
Of the cresses in my curls
Wet of raven hair -
Fool and coward! are you such?
Would you have him thus to know
That you died for utter woe
And despair o'ermuch?
No! my face a marble bust!
As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern! -
Passions hid, as in an urn,
Burnt to bitter dust!
And I'll write him as he wrote,
Making, with his worded scorn,
Tyrant, - crowned with stinging thorn, -
His cold, cruel note.
"You'll forget," he says, "and I
Feel 'tis better for us twain:
It may give you some small pain,
But, 'twill soon be by.
"You are dark, and Maud is light;
I am dark; and it is said
Opposites are better wed; -
So I think I'm right."
"You are dark and Maud is fair!"
I could laugh at this excuse
If this aching, mad abuse
Were not more than hair!
But I'll write him as a-glad
Some few happy words and light,
Touching on some past delight,
That last year we had.
Not one line of broken vows,
Sighs or hurtful tears unshed,
Faithless lips far better dead,
Nor a withered rose.
But a rose, this Perle to wear, -
Perle des Jardins delicate
With faint fragrant life elate, -
When he weds her there.
So; 'tis finished! It is well!
Go, thou rose! I have no tear,
Kiss, or word for thee to bear,
And no woe to tell.
Only be thus full of life,
Cold and calm, impassionate,
Filled with neither love nor hate,
When he calls her wife!
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