At last; so this is you, my dear! How should I guess to find you here? So long, so long, I sought in vain In many cities, many lands, With straining eyes and groping hands; The people marvelled at my pain. They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad; What ails her, we should like to know, That she should be so wan and sad, And silent through the revels go?” They clacked with such a sorry stir! Was I to tell? were they to know That I had lost you, Christopher? Will you forgive me for one thing? Whiles, when a stranger came my way, My heart would beat and I would say : ” Here’s Christopher!” –then lingering With longer gaze, would turn away Cold, sick at heart. My dear, I know You will forgive me for this thing. It is so very long ago Since I have seen your face–till now; Now that I see it–lip and brow, Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear; Last time was long ago; I know This thing you will forgive me, dear.
There is no Heaven–This is the best; O hold me closer to your breast; Let your face lean upon my face, That there no longer shall be space Between our lips, between our eyes. I feel your bosom’s fall and rise. O hold me near and yet more near; Ah sweet ; I wonder do you know How lone and cold, how sad and drear, Was I a little while ago; Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir; But I have found you, Christopher.
If only you had come before! (This is the thing I most deplore) A seemlier woman you had found, More calm, by courtesies more bound, Less quick to greet you, more subdued Of appetite; of slower mood. But ah! you come so late, so late! This time of day I can’t pretend With slight, sweet things to satiate The hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend, I cannot blush and turn and tremble, Wax loth as younger maidens do. Ah, Christopher, with you, with you, You would not wish me to dissemble?
So long have all the days been meagre, With empty platter, empty cup, No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure, That if I crave–is it over-eager, The deepest draught, the fullest measure, The beaker to the brim poured up?
Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above, Says, and would make the matter clear, That love divided is larger love;– We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear. For you never wrote a verse, you see; And I–my verse is not fair nor new. Till the world be dead, you shall love but me, Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.
Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did run Their purport. Idly seeking in the chest (You see it yonder), I had found them there: Some blotted sheets of paper in a case, With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.” Twice on the writing there was scored the date Of ten years back; and where the words had end Was left a space, a dash, a half-writ word, As tho’ the writer minded, presently The matter to pursue. I questioned her, That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine, Who, nothing loth, made answer. There had been Another lodger ere I had the rooms, Three months gone by–a woman. “Young, sir ? No. Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day! A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends; Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers. Short in her temper–eyes would flash and flame At times, till I was frightened. Paid her rent Most regular, like a lady. Ten years back, They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years back The lady had a lover. Even then She must have been no chicken. Three months since She died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just. I did my best to tend her, yet indeed It’s bad for trade to have a lodger die. Her brother came, a week before she died: Buried her, took her things, threw in the fire The littered heaps of paper. Yes, the sheets, They must have been forgotten in the chest;– I never knew her name was Adelaide.”