Well the worker earned his wage, Not as ours the books of old- Then a book was still a Book, In that growth of day by day, Something that one still perceives A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC LD it is, and worn and battered, OLD As I lift it from the stall; And the leaves are frayed and tattered, And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced and blackened by a ball. "Tis the tale of grief and gladness And a perfume round it hovers, As I read I marvel whether, In some pleasant old château, Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With the shining Loire below? Nooked-secluded from espial, Did Love slip and snare them so, While the hours danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant old château ? Did it happen that no single Word of mouth could either speak? Did the brown and gold hair mingle, Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle To the shock of cheek and cheek? Did they feel with that first flushing Of "Savignac" and "Lucile"? Did he drop on knee before her— Plead his pleasure and his pain? Did she turn with sight swift-dimming, And the quivering lip we know, With the full, slow eyelid brimming, With the languorous pupil swimming, Like the love of Mirabeau ? Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling, In a flash all fate fulfilling Did he catch her, trembling, thrillingCrushing life to one caress? Did they sit in that dim sweetness Till at last she,-sunlight smiting Red on wrist and cheek and hair,— Sought the page where love first lighting, Fixed their fate, and, in this writing, Fixed the record of it there. Did they marry midst the smother, Woful, wistful, wife and mother, Round and round his prison wall;— Wander wailing, as the plover Waileth, wheeleth, desolate, Heedless of the hawk above her, While as yet the rushes cover, Waning fast, her wounded mate ;— Wander, till his love's eyes met hers, Letters where the reader, reading, Letters where Love's iteration Like a song-bird from a grave. Where, through Passion's wild repeating, Abelard and Cato greeting, Rousseau ramping over all. Yet your critic's right-you waive it, Written there in tears of blood. |