Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs—and that is all. It hangs forgotten quite,— Forgotten in the purple vintage-day, Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay, The daggers of the night. It knew the thrill of spring; It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons; Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes Of summer's whispering. Through balmy morns of May; Through fragrances of June and bright July, And August, hot and still, it hung on high And purpled day by day. Of fair and mantling shapes, No braver, fairer cluster on the tree; And what then is this thing has come to thee Among the other grapes, Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine, Granted the right to grow thy mates beside, To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied Thy place among the wine? Ah! we are dull and blind. The riddle is too hard for us to guess The why of joy or of unhappiness, Chosen or left behind. But everywhere a host Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine: Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine, Left out to meet the frost.

EMBALMED

This is the street and the dwelling, Let me count the houses o'er; Yes,—one, two, three from the corner, And the house that I love makes four. That is the very window Where I used to see her head Bent over book or needle, With ivy garlanded. And the very loop of the curtain, And the very curve of the vine, Were full of the grace and the meaning Which was hers by some right divine. I began to be glad at the corner, And all the way to the door My heart outran my footsteps, And frolicked and danced before, In haste for the words of welcome, The voice, the repose and grace, And the smile, like a benediction, Of that beautiful, vanished face. Now I pass the door, and I pause not, And I look the other way; But ever, a waft of fragrance, Too subtle to name or stay, Comes the thought of the gracious presence Which made that past time sweet, And still to those who remember, Embalms the house and the street, Like the breath from some vase, now empty Of a flowery shape unseen, Which follows the path of its lover, To tell where a rose has been.

GINEVRA DEGLI AMIERI

A STORY OF OLD FLORENCE

So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head, Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without, As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair. Were they afraid that I should be afraid? I, who had died once and been laid in tomb? They need not. Little one, look not so pale. I am not raving. Ah! you never heard The story. Climb up there upon the bed: Sit close, and listen. After this one day I shall not tell you stories any more. How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve? Almost a woman? Scarcely more than that Was your fair mother when she bore her bud; And scarcely more was I when, long years since, I left my father's house, a bride in May. You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church, Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frown On the Mercato, humming at its base; And hold on high, out of the common reach, The lilies and carved shields above its door; And, higher yet, to catch and woo the sun, A little loggia set against the sky? That was my play-place ever as a child; And with me used to play a kinsman's son, Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days! Two happy things we were, with none to chide Or hint that life was anything but play. Sudden the play-time ended. All at once "You must be wed," they told me. "What is wed?" I asked; but with the word I bent my brow, Let them put on the garland, smiled to see The glancing jewels tied about my neck; And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth By my grave husband, older than my sire. O the long years that followed! It would seem That the sun never shone in all those years, Or only with a sudden, troubled glint Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love Raised to my face,—my conscious, woful face. Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined Together, none forbidding, for so long. They let our childish fingers drop the seed, Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain; They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow, Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant. I loved Antonio, and he loved me. Life was all shadow, but it was not sin! I loved Antonio, but I kept me pure, Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake Of him, my first-born child, my little child, Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day. I loved; but, hear me swear, I kept me pure! (Remember that, Madonna, when I come Before thy throne to-morrow. Be not stern, Or gaze upon me with reproachful look, Making my little angel hide his face And weep, while all the others turn glad eyes Rejoicing on their mothers.) It was hard To sit in darkness while the rest had light, To move to discords when the rest had song, To be so young and never to have lived. I bore, as women bear, until one day Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more," And with the word uprose, tore clay apart, And what was blank before grew blanker still. It was a fever, so the leeches said. I had been dead so long, I did not know The difference, or heed. Oil on my breast, The garments of the grave about me wrapped, They bore me forth, and laid me in the tomb. The rich and beautiful and dreadful tomb, Where all the buried Amteris lie, Beneath the Duomo's black and towering shade. Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night. It was night then, when I awoke to feel That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door, The coffins of my fathers all about. Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back, As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell. With frantic strength I beat upon the grate. It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure Next time. NEXT TIME. That hurts me even now! Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which. High overhead Giotto's tower soared; Behind, the Duomo rose all white and black; Then pealed a sudden jargoning of bells, And down the darkling street I wildly fled, Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon, Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I. I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light And human touch; but still my witless steps Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped, By instinct, knocked, and called. A window oped. A voice—t'was his—demanded: "Who is there?" "Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone Change into horror, and he prayed aloud And called upon the saints, the while I urged, "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in! I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!" Then, with a crash, the window was shut fast; And, though I cried and beat upon the door And wailed aloud, no other answer came. Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove Down the hard distance towards my father's house. "They will have pity and will let me in," I thought. "They loved me and will let me in." Cowards! At the high window overhead They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed: "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in! I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!" "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire. My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax To St. Eustachio, would he but remove This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust From out the window, and my brother cried, "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!" Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb And the cold coffined ones? Up the long street, Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went. My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones; My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape Saw never Florence since. The people call That street through which I walked and wrung my hands "Street of the Dead One," even to this day. The sleeping houses stood in midnight black, And not a soul was in the streets but I. At last I saw a flickering point of light High overhead, in a dim window set. I had lain down to die; but at the sight I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then It was Antonio's door by which I lay. A window opened, and a voice called out: "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought, "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest, And bid me hence." But, lo! a moment more The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in. "O ghost or angel of my buried love, I know not, care not which, be welcome here! Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!" I heard him say, and then I heard no more. It was high noontide when I woke again, To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,— My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn, Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb, Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet Over the pavement to Antonio's door. Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs. Hot raged the quarrel; then came Justice in, And to the court we swept—I in my shroud— To try the cause. This was the verdict given: "A woman who has been to burial borne, Made fast and left and locked in with the dead; Who at her husband's door has stood and plead For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied; Who from her father's house is urged and chased, Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact. The Court pronounces the defendant—dead! She can resume her former ties at will, Or may renounce them, if such be her will. She is no more a daughter, or a spouse, Unless she choose, and is set free to form New ties, if so she choose." O, blessed words! That very day we knelt before the priest, My love and I, were wed, and life began. Child of my child, child of Antonio's child, Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face. 'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you. But time is brief, and, had I told you not, Haply the story would have met your ears From them, the Amieri, my own blood, Now turned to gall, whose foul and bitter lips Will wag with lies when once my lips are dumb. (Pardon me, Virgin. I was gentle once, And thou hast seen my wrongs. Thou wilt forgive.) Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up, To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad. I, who have died once, do not fear to die. Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this. Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say, I know I shall not stand long at that gate, Or knock and be refused an entrance there, For he will start up when lie hears my voice, The saints will smile, and he will open quick. Only a night to part me from that joy. Jesu Maria! let the dawning come.

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