Christopher John Brennan

Romance

Of old, on her terrace at evening …not here…in some long-gone kingdom O, folded close to her breast!…

—our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness (was it trees? or a shadowy passion the pain of an old-world longing that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?) —the gloom of the forest blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies that shut in our lonely world.

…not here…in some long-gone world…

close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp no word did we utter, we stirr'd not: the silence of Death, or of Love… only, round and over us that tearless infinite yearning and the Night with her spread wings rustling folding us with the stars.

…not here…in some long-gone kingdom of old, on her terrace at evening O, folded close to her heart!…

Poppies

Where the poppy-banners flow
 in and out amongst the corn,
 spotless morn
ever saw us come and go

hand in hand, as girl and boy
 warming fast to youth and maid,
 half afraid
at the hint of passionate joy

still in Summer's rose unshown:
 yet we heard nor knew a fear;
 strong and clear
summer's eager clarion blown

from the sunrise to the set:
 now our feet are far away,
 night and day,
do the old-known spots forget?

Sweet, I wonder if those hours
 breathe of us now parted thence,
 if a sense
of our love-birth thrill their flowers.

Poppies flush all tremulous —
 has our love grown into them,
 root and stem;
are the red blooms red with us?

Summer's standards are outroll'd,
 other lovers wander slow;
 I would know
if the morn is that of old.

Here our days bloom fuller yet,
 happiness is all our task;
 still I ask —
do the vanish'd days forget?