The Mother’s Tragedy

( 7O) THE BRIDEGROOM O passion stirs the cool white throat of her; No living glory fills the deep dead eyes ; No sleep that breaks her Southern indolence; Not all the breezes out of heaven, that stir The sleepy wells and woodlands, bid her rise ; Nor all a godhead’s amorous violence. She is at peace; we will go hence. Warm wealth of draperies, the broidered room, And delicate tissues of pale silk that shine About her bed: all kiss the dead girl’s face With shadowy reluctances that gloom Over and under, and the cold divine Presence of Death bedews the quiet place. She was so gracious; she Was grace. Once, in the long insidious hours that steal Through summer’s pleasant kingdom, she would weave Such songs, such murmurs of the dusky breeze That passed, like silken tapestries that feel The silkier cheeks of maidens as they cleave Tender to patient lovers, for the ease Of lips fulfilled of harmony. |