Classic Poem

THE CELIBATE

How many Autumns o'er the grass have fled
With fading frost to wither leaf and flower? —
Since from a shadowland my mother led
The little child whom she had gone to find,
And like a weary voyager that hour
Whispered my name to those upon the shore,
Then drifted onward with an alien wind
Until the watchers saw her barque no more.

Was it the wind that swept her out to sea, —
My mother who fulfilled her duteous fate,
That, Spring or Summer, chilled the heart of me?
On softer eves I, too, have walked along
Those moon-lit paths where love and music wait;
But ever in my soul did Shame and Fear
Reject the pleading of a lover's song,
Reject the vows I would not speak or hear.

Youth-time is past, and lovers plead no more,
Gold hair is grey, and eyes have lost their light;
This empty heart that passion never tore
Grows humbler in its ache of loneliness;
The high chaste visions that have filled my sight
Are fled for ever like forgotten things. ...
I have not known great gladness, or distress,
And dove-like peace has stayed on silver wings;

But in the twilight silences I long
To warm my cold hands at the hearth of love,
To hear again the pleading of a song;
I dream of children whom I would not bear,
And my chill death in life I weary of;
As if within a grave my soul took root, —
I am a tree that blossomed and was fair,
I am the flowers that fell and left no fruit.