Classic Poem

One April night, when the slow drip of rain
Like a remote accompaniment
Upon her window-pane
Played ghostly threnodies,
And they were very close, while in the trees
Outside the window the cold arc-lights set
A thousand stars
On branches gleaming wet,
While the belovèd mystery of the dark
Swept like a curtain over the soiled park,—
Then, as her head
Upon his shoulder rested
Like a bird nested,—
But on that night indifferently,—then he said:
“If you should die,
You who have made me happy and tortured me
With your inscrutable soul's perversity,
Then I
Would mark your memory with such wreath of song
As to no other woman might belong
Through all of history.”
And in the rapt indifference of her face,—
For at that hour her love was far away,—
A little mocking tenderness found place;
He heard her say:

“Poor player! I would die,—save that the test
Would rob you of more rest
Than even my perversity of now.
Dear dreamer! painfully that vow
Would haunt your sleep forever.
No, for your sake I will forbear to sever
The thread of life. And though I cannot smile
With quite the madness that I once could use,
It seems that I must choose
To save you from your oath, and live a little while. . . .”

The rain came down
Quietly, steadily, over the town.
They sat, silent; he dreaming of the lays
Which in fantastical coronal of praise
He would have woven for her were she dead.
And then she fell asleep, her light smooth head
Upon his shoulder. . . .
Tonight the rain
Beats on his window-pane—
The fierce rain of a Spring but one year older. . . .