Classic Poem

I.

There was an eye, a steadfast eye,
That once I loved, — I love it now; —
And still it gazes on my brow,
Unchanged through all, — unchangingly.

II.

It could not change, though it has gone; —
For 'twas a thing of soul; — and so
It did not with the mortal go
To that one chamber, still and lone.

III.

It had a touch, a winning touch,
Of twilight sadness in its glance;
And look'd, at times, as in a trance,
Till I grew sad, I loved so much.

IV.

For life is selfish, and the tear
In one we love is like a gloom;
And still I wept the stubborn doom
That made a thing of grief so dear.

V.

Through sunny hours and cloudy hours,
And hours that had nor sun nor cloud,
That eye was wrapt, as in a shroud,
Such shroud as autumn flings o'er flowers.

VI.

It had a language dear to me,
Though strange to all the world beside;
And many a grief I strove to chide
Grew sweet to mine idolatry.

VII.

I could not stay the grief, nor chase
The cloud that gloom'd the earnest eye;
But gave, — 'twas all, — my sympathy,
And woe was written on my face.

VIII.

'Twas on my face, as in my heart;
And when the Lady Monna died,
Whom still I loved, — I never sigh'd,
But tearless saw the lights depart.

IX.

They bore her coldly to the tomb;
They took me to my home away;
Nor knew that from that vacant day,
My home was with her in the gloom.

X.

They little knew how still we went,
Together, in the midnight shade,
Communing, with wet eyes, that made
Our very passions innocent.

XI.

Born of the cloud, her mournful eye
Was on me still, as shines the star,
That, drooping from its heights afar,
Broods ever on eternity.

XII.

It led me aye through folds of shade,
By day and darkness still the same,
And, heedless of all mortal blame,
I follow'd meekly where it bade.

XIII.

They watch'd my steps, and scann'd my face,
And vex'd my heart till I grew stern; —
For curious eyes have yet to learn
How sorrow dreads each finger trace.

XIV.

Mine was too deep a love to be
The common theme for idle tongue,
And when they spoke of her, they wrung
My spirit into agony.

XV.

I live a lone and settled woe; —
I care not if the day be fair
Or foul, — I would that I were near
The maid they buried long ago.