The Daguerreotype

This, then, is she,             My mother as she looked at seventeen,             When she first met my father. Young incredibly,             Younger than spring, without the faintest trace             Of disappointment, weariness, or tean             Upon the childlike earnestness and grace             Of the waiting face.             These close-wound ropes of pearl             (Or common beads made precious by their use)             Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear;             But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare             And half the glad swell of the breast, for news             That now the woman stirs within the girl.             And yet,             Even so, the loops and globes             Of beaten gold             And jet             Hung, in the stately way of old,             From the ears' drooping lobes             On festivals and Lord's-day of the week,             Show all too matron-sober for the cheek,--             Which, now I look again, is perfect child,             Or no--or no--'t is girlhood's very self,             Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf             So meek, so maiden mild,             But startling the close gazer with the sense             Of passions forest-shy and forest-wild,             And delicate delirious merriments.             As a moth beats sidewise             And up and over, and tries             To skirt the irresistible lure             Of the flame that has him sure,             My spirit, that is none too strong to-day,             Flutters and makes delay,--             Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips,             Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair             And each hid radiance there,             But powerless to stem the tide-race bright,             The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light             Where soon--ah, now, with cries             Of grief and giving-up unto its gain             It shrinks no longer nor denies,             But dips             Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain,--             And all is well, for I have seen them plain,             The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes!             Across the blinding gush of these good tears             They shine as in the sweet and heavy years             When by her bed and chair             We children gathered jealously to share             The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme,             Where the sore-stricken body made a clime             Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme,             Holier and more mystical than prayer.             God, how thy ways are strange!             That this should be, even this,             The patient head             Which suffered years ago the dreary change!             That these so dewy lips should be the same             As those I stooped to kiss             And heard my harrowing half-spoken name,             A little ere the one who bowed above her,             Our father and her very constant lover,             Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead.             Then I, who could not understand or share             His antique nobleness,             Being unapt to bear             The insults which time flings us for our proof,             Fled from the horrible roof             Into the alien sunshine merciless,             The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day,             Raging to front God in his pride of sway             And hurl across the lifted swords of fate             That ringed Him where He sat             My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate             Which somehow should undo Him, after all!             That this girl face, expectant, virginal,             Which gazes out at me             Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth             (Save for the eyes, with other presage stored)             To pledge me troth,             And in the kingdom where the heart is lord             Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep             Whose winds the gray Norns keep,--             That this should be indeed             The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed,             Out of the to and fro             Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage,             Stooping from star to star and age to age             Sings as he sows!             That underneath this breast             Nine moons I fed             Deep of divine unrest,             While over and over in the dark she said,             "Blessd! but not as happier children blessed"--             That this should be             Even she....             God, how with time and change             Thou makest thy footsteps strange!             Ah, now I know             They play upon me, and it is not so.             Why, 't is a girl I never saw before,             A little thing to flatter and make weep,             To tease until her heart is sore,             Then kiss and clear the score;             A gypsy run-the-fields,             A little liberal daughter of the earth,             Good for what hour of truancy and mirth             The careless season yields             Hither-side the flood o' the year and yonder of the neap;             Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.--             O shrined above the skies,             Frown not, clear brow,             Darken not, holy eyes!             Thou knowest well I know that it is thou!             Only to save me from such memories             As would unman me quite,             Here in this web of strangeness caught             And prey to troubled thought             Do I devise             These foolish shifts and slight;             Only to shield me from the afflicting sense             Of some waste influence             Which from this morning face and lustrous hair             Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair.             In any other guise,             With any but this girlish depth of gaze,             Your coming had not so unsealed and poured             The dusty amphoras where I had stored             The drippings of the winepress of my days.             I think these eyes foresee,             Now in their unawakened virgin time,             Their mother's pride in me,             And dream even now, unconsciously,             Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea             You pictured I should climb.             Broken premonitions come,             Shapes, gestures visionary,             Not as once to maiden Mary             The manifest angel with fresh lilies came             Intelligibly calling her by name;             But vanishingly, dumb,             Thwarted and bright and wild,             As heralding a sin-defiled,             Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child,             Who yet should be a trump of mighty call             Blown in the gates of evil kings             To make them fall;             Who yet should be a sword of flame before             The soul's inviolate door             To beat away the clang of hellish wings;             Who yet should be a lyre             Of high unquenchable desire             In the day of little things.--             Look, where the amphoras,             The yield of many days,             Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self             And set upon the shelf             In sullen pride             The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide--             O mother mine!             Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine,             Of him you used to praise?             Emptied and overthrown             The jars lie strown.             These, for their flavor duly nursed,             Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed;             These, I thought honied to the very seal,             Dry, dry,--a little acid meal,             A pinch of mouldy dust,             Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must;             These, rude to look upon,             But flasking up the liquor dearest won,             Through sacred hours and hard,             With watching and with wrestlings and with grief,             Even of these, of these in chief,             The stale breath sickens, reeking from the shard.             Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than naught!             What shall be said or thought             Of the slack hours and waste imaginings,             The cynic rending of the wings,             Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart             Whereof this brewage was the precious part,             Treasured and set away with furtive boast?             O dear and cruel ghost,             Be merciful, be just!             See, I was yours and I am in the dust.             Then look not so, as if all things were well!             Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame,             Or else, if gaze they must,             Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame;             But by the ways of light ineffable             You bade me go and I have faltered from,             By the low waters moaning out of hell             Whereto my feet have come,             Lay not on me these intolerable             Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!             Nothing dismayed?             By all I say and all I hint not made             Afraid?             O then, stay by me! Let             These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet.             Brave eyes and true!             See how the shriveled heart, that long has lain             Dead to delight and pain,             Stirs, and begins again             To utter pleasant life, as if it knew             The wintry days were through;             As if in its awakening boughs it heard             The quick, sweet-spoken bird.             Strong eyes and brave,             Inexorable to save!