AUF WIEDERSEHEN

SUMMER

The little gate was reached at last,
  Half hid in lilacs down the lane;
She pushed it wide, and, as she past,
A wistful look she backward cast,
  And said,—­’Auf wiedersehen!’

With hand on latch, a vision white
  Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
  She said,—­’Auf wiedersehen!’

The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair;
  I linger in delicious pain;
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
  Thinks she,—­’Auf wiedersehen?’ ...

’Tis thirteen years; once more I press
  The turf that silences the lane;
I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and—­ah, yes,
  I hear ‘Auf wiedersehen!’

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! 
  The English words had seemed too fain,
But these—­they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart;
  She said, ‘Auf wiedersehen!’

PALINODE

AUTUMN

Still thirteen years:  ’tis autumn now
  On field and hill, in heart and brain;
The naked trees at evening sough;
The leaf to the forsaken bough
  Sighs not,—­’Auf wiedersehen!’

Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome,
  That now is void, and dank with rain,
And one,—­oh, hope more frail than foam! 
The bird to his deserted home
  Sings not,—­’Auf wiedersehen!’

The loath gate swings with rusty creak;
  Once, parting there, we played at pain: 
There came a parting, when the weak
And fading lips essayed to speak
  Vainly,—­’Auf wiedersehen!’

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
  Though thou in outer dark remain;
One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
And still, for eighteen centuries saith
  Softly,—­’Auf wiedersehen!’

If earth another grave must bear,
  Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,
And something whispers my despair,
That, from an orient chamber there,
  Floats down, ‘Auf wiedersehen!’

AFTER THE BURIAL

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor;
  When skies are sweet as a psalm,
At the bows it lolls so stalwart,
  In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward
  The tattered surges are hurled,
It may keep our head to the tempest,
  With its grip on the base of the world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me
  What help in its iron thews,
Still true to the broken hawser,
  Deep down among sea-weed and ooze?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,
  When the helpless feet stretch out
And find in the deeps of darkness
  No footing so solid as doubt,