Verses. Coolidge Susan

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