On my finger is a ring When the night hides everything. Little sister, thou art pale! Ah, I have a wandering brain— And my thoughts grow calm again. Dear, I heard thee in the spring, Thee and Robert-through the trees,― When we all went gathering Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. Do not start so! think instead How the sunshine overhead Seemed to trickle through the shade. What a day it was, that day! Hills and vales did openly Through the winding hedgerows green, How we wandered, I and you, With the bowery tops shut in, And the gates that showed the view! How we talked there! thrushes soft Sang our praises out, or oft Bleatings took them, from the croft: Till the pleasure grown too strong I sat down beneath the beech But the sound grew into word What you wished me not to hear, Yes, and HE too! let him stand In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand He had claimed with hasty claim? That was wrong perhaps but then Such things be—and will, again. Women cannot judge for men. Had he seen thee when he swore When he saw thee who art best Could we blame him with grave words, And that hour-beneath the beech, Till it burst with that last strain. I fell flooded with a dark, In the silence of a swoon. When I rose, still cold and stark, And I walked as if apart From myself, when I could stand, And I pitied my own heart, As if I held it in my hand, Somewhat coldly, with a sense Of fulfilled benevolence, And I answered coldly too, When you met me at the door; And I only heard the dew Dripping from me to the floor: And the flowers I bade you see, Were too withered for the bee,— As my life, henceforth, for me. -Dear--heart-warm! Do not weep so All was best as it befell. If I say he did me harm, I speak wild, I am not well. All his words were kind and goodHe esteemed me. Only, blood Runs so faint in womanhood! Then I always was too grave,— We are so unlike each other, Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness. Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant verily to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold. I am pale as crocus grows Close behind a rose-tree's root; Whosoe'er would reach the rose, Treads the crocus underfoot. I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Yet who plucks me ?-no one mourns, I have lived my season out, And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without. Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night Keep the candles in my sight. Are there footsteps at the door? Colder grow my hands and feet. May be lifted out of gloom. And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering. Let me wear it out of sight, In the grave,—where it will light |