Classic Poem

Her own lovely eyes were tearful, when her touching tale was ended,
And he said, " So sweet a story sweet lips never told before. "
Then, along the crimson sunset, from the hill-top they descended,
Through the purple-laden vineyards, to the golden-sanded shore.

So, their lives ran on right brightly, and their pilgrim feet went straying
From the rivers of the Rhineland to the cities by the sea;
The artist, painting pictures, wheresoever they were staying,
And, in palace, hall or cottage, was no happier wife than she.

One fair summer found them dwelling in a rural home, embowered
In chestnut trees, and climbing vines, and fairest flowers that blow,
Where the grim old Dent du Jamin, like a giant warder, towered,
And the waves of Lake Geneva went a-singing far below.

Like some tender dream of beauty, that one half forgets awaking,
And tries, vainly, ever after, to remember and recall,
Were those months on Lake Geneva-she for his love all forsaking,
He giving in fond recompense, his heart, soul, strength, life, all.

But the summer blossoms faded, and the autumn winds came wailing,
And the lovely lake grew shadowy and forgot its summer song;
Cold gray mists, like tattered banner, 'round the lofty Alps went trailing,
And the falling leaves, like little feet, kept pattering all day long.

Then the artist's brow grew paler, and his dark eyes lost their brightness,
And he passed the sunny threshold with a slower, heavier tread;
Lip and cheek grew sometimes ghastly, with a strange, unnatural whiteness,
And there often was a tremor in the loving words he said.

Ne'ertheless, rare forms of beauty grew beneath his pencil daily.
He embodied many golden dreams of many golden years;
And, in working, he trilled snatches of familiar songs so gaily,
That the young wife, all things hoping, half forgot her troubling fears.

When the frosts came, in November, he seemed better, somewhat stronger,
And the old light came, by flashes, to the darkness of his eyes;
But one evening, when she waited, and he tarried later, longer
Than was usual, she started with a tremor of surprise;

And sought him in his studio. There, the tender moon-light, shining
Through the lofty orief window, made a glory round his head,
As he sat, asleep in seeming, on his easel half reclining —
Ay; asleep he was, nor wakened when she called him. He was dead!