Interim

The room is full of you!--As I came in         And closed the door behind me, all at once         A something in the air, intangible,         Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!--         Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed         Each other room's dear personality.         The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,--         The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death--         Has strangled that habitual breath of home         Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;         And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.         Save here.    Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate         Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped         Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,         Sweet garden of a thousand years ago         And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!"         You are not here.    I know that you are gone,         And will not ever enter here again.         And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,         Your silent step must wake across the hall;         If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes         Would kiss me from the door.--So short a time         To teach my life its transposition to         This difficult and unaccustomed key!--         The room is as you left it; your last touch--         A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself         As saintly--hallows now each simple thing;         Hallows and glorifies, and glows between         The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light.         There is your book, just as you laid it down,         Face to the table,--I cannot believe         That you are gone!--Just then it seemed to me         You must be here.    I almost laughed to think         How like reality the dream had been;         Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.         That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!         Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,         And whether this or this will be the end";         So rose, and left it, thinking to return.         Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed         Out of the room, rocked silently a while         Ere it again was still. When you were gone         Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,         Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,         Silently, to and fro. . .         And here are the last words your fingers wrote,         Scrawled in broad characters across a page         In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,         Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.         Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t",         And here another like it, just beyond         These two eccentric "e's".    You were so small,         And wrote so brave a hand!                                                          How strange it seems         That of all words these are the words you chose!         And yet a simple choice; you did not know         You would not write again.    If you had known--         But then, it does not matter,--and indeed         If you had known there was so little time         You would have dropped your pen and come to me         And this page would be empty, and some phrase         Other than this would hold my wonder now.         Yet, since you could not know, and it befell         That these are the last words your fingers wrote,         There is a dignity some might not see         In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day."         To-day!    Was there an opening bud beside it         You left until to-morrow?--O my love,         The things that withered,--and you came not back!         That day you filled this circle of my arms         That now is empty.    (O my empty life!)         That day--that day you picked the first sweet-pea,--         And brought it in to show me!    I recall         With terrible distinctness how the smell         Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.         I know, you held it up for me to see         And flushed because I looked not at the flower,         But at your face; and when behind my look         You saw such unmistakable intent         You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.         (You were the fairest thing God ever made,         I think.)    And then your hands above my heart         Drew down its stem into a fastening,         And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.         I wonder if you knew.    (Beloved hands!         Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.         Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust         In your bright hair.)    What is the need of Heaven         When earth can be so sweet?--If only God         Had let us love,--and show the world the way!         Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books         When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!         That first sweet-pea!    I wonder where it is.         It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,         And yet,--I am not sure. I am not sure,         Even, if it was white or pink; for then         'Twas much like any other flower to me,         Save that it was the first.    I did not know,         Then, that it was the last.    If I had known--         But then, it does not matter.    Strange how few,         After all's said and done, the things that are         Of moment.                  Few indeed!    When I can make         Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!         "I had you and I have you now no more."         There, there it dangles,--where's the little truth         That can for long keep footing under that         When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?         Here, let me write it down!    I wish to see         Just how a thing like that will look on paper!         "*I had you and I have you now no more*."         O little words, how can you run so straight         Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?         How can you fall apart, whom such a theme         Has bound together, and hereafter aid         In trivial expression, that have been         So hideously dignified?--Would God         That tearing you apart would tear the thread         I strung you on!    Would God--O God, my mind         Stretches asunder on this merciless rack         Of imagery!    O, let me sleep a while!         Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back         In that sweet summer afternoon with you.         Summer?    'Tis summer still by the calendar!         How easily could God, if He so willed,         Set back the world a little turn or two!         Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!         We were so wholly one I had not thought         That we could die apart.    I had not thought         That I could move,--and you be stiff and still!         That I could speak,--and you perforce be dumb!         I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof         In some firm fabric, woven in and out;         Your golden filaments in fair design         Across my duller fibre.    And to-day         The shining strip is rent; the exquisite         Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart         Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled         In the damp earth with you.    I have been torn         In two, and suffer for the rest of me.         What is my life to me?    And what am I         To life,--a ship whose star has guttered out?         A Fear that in the deep night starts awake         Perpetually, to find its senses strained         Against the taut strings of the quivering air,         Awaiting the return of some dread chord?         Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;         All else were contrast,--save that contrast's wall         Is down, and all opposed things flow together         Into a vast monotony, where night         And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,         Are synonyms.    What now--what now to me         Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers         That clutter up the world?    You were my song!         Now, let discord scream!    You were my flower!         Now let the world grow weeds!    For I shall not         Plant things above your grave--(the common balm         Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)         Amid sensations rendered negative         By your elimination stands to-day,         Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;         I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth         With travesties of suffering, nor seek         To effigy its incorporeal bulk         In little wry-faced images of woe.         I cannot call you back; and I desire         No utterance of my immaterial voice.         I cannot even turn my face this way         Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";         I know not where you are, I do not know         If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,         Body and soul, you into earth again;         But this I know:--not for one second's space         Shall I insult my sight with visionings         Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed         Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.         Let the world wail!    Let drip its easy tears!         My sorrow shall be dumb!         --What do I say?         God! God!--God pity me!    Am I gone mad         That I should spit upon a rosary?         Am I become so shrunken?    Would to God         I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch         Makes temporal the most enduring grief;         Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,         With wild lamenting!    Would I too might weep         Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths         For its new dead!    Not Truth, but Faith, it is         That keeps the world alive.    If all at once         Faith were to slacken,--that unconscious faith         Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone         Of all believing,--birds now flying fearless         Across would drop in terror to the earth;         Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins         Would tangle in the frantic hands of God         And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!         O God, I see it now, and my sick brain         Staggers and swoons!    How often over me         Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight         In which I see the universe unrolled         Before me like a scroll and read thereon         Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl         Dizzily round and round and round and round,         Like tops across a table, gathering speed         With every spin, to waver on the edge         One instant--looking over--and the next         To shudder and lurch forward out of sight--                  *        *        *        *        *         Ah, I am worn out--I am wearied out--         It is too much--I am but flesh and blood,         And I must sleep.    Though you were dead again,         I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.