On Such A Day

SOME hang above the tombs,

Some weep in empty rooms,

I, when the iris blooms,

Remember.

I, when the cyclamen

Opens her buds again,

Rejoice a moment -- then

Remember.

Mary Coleridge

The Other Side of a Mirror

I SAT before my glass one day,

And conjured up a vision bare,

Unlike the aspects glad and gay,

That erst were found reflected there--

The vision of a woman, wild

With more than womanly despair.

Her hair stood back on either side

A face bereft of loveliness.

It had no envy now to hide

What once no man on earth could guess.

It formed the thorny aureole

Of hard unsanctified distress.

Her lips were open--not a sound

Came through the parted lines of red.

Whate'er it was, the hideous wound

In silence and in secret bled.

No sigh relieved her speechless woe,

She had no voice to speak her dread.

And in her lurid eyes there shone

The dying flame of life's desire,

Made mad because its hope was gone,

And kindled at the leaping fire

Of jealousy, and fierce revenge,

And strength that could not change nor tire.

Shade of a shadow in the glass,

O set the crystal surface free!

Pass--as the fairer visions pass--

Not ever more to return, to be

The ghost of a distracted hour,

That hear me whisper, 'I am she!'

Mary Coleridge

Gone

ABOUT the little chambers of my heart

Friends have been coming--going--many a year.

The doors stand open there.

Some, lightly stepping, enter; some depart.

Freely they come and freely go, at will.

The walls give back their laughter; all day long

They fill the house with song.

One door alone is shut, one chamber still.

Mary Coleridge

Gifts

I tossed my friend a wreath of roses, wet

With early dew, the garland of the morn.

He lifted it--and on his brow he set

     A crackling crown of thorn.

Against my foe I hurled a murderous dart.

He caught it in his hand--I heard him laugh--

I saw the thing that should have pierced his heart

     Turn to a golden staff.

Mary Coleridge

The Witch

I HAVE walked a great while over the snow,

And I am not tall or strong.

My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set,

And the way was hard and long.

I have wandered over the fruitful earth,

But I never came here before.

Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

The cutting wind is a cruel foe.

I dare not stand in the blast.

My hands are stone, and my voice a groan,

And the worst of death is past.

I am but a little maiden still,

My little white feet are sore.

Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

Her voice was the voice that women have,

Who plead for their heart's desire.

She came--she came--and the quivering flame

Sank and died in the fire.

It never was lit again on my hearth

Since I hurried across the floor,

To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.

Mary Coleridge

September

NOW every day the bracken browner grows,

Even the purple stars

Of clematis, that shone about the bars,

Grow browner; and the little autumn rose

Dons, for her rosy gown,

Sad weeds of brown.

Now falls the eve; and ere the morning sun,

Many a flower her sweet life will have lost,

Slain by the bitter frost,

Who slays the butterflies also, one by one,

The tiny beasts

That go about their business and their feasts.

Mary E. Coleridge