The Yew-Berry
I
I call this idle history the ‘Berry of the Yew;
Because there's nothing sweeter than its husk of scarlet glue,
And nothing half so bitter as its black core bitten through.
I loved, saw hope, and said so; learn'd that Laura loved again:
Why speak of joy then suffer'd? My head throbs, and I would fain
Find words to lay the spectre starting now before my brain.
She loved me: all things told it; eye to eye, and palm to palm:
As the pause upon the ceasing of a thousand-voiced psalm
Was the mighty satisfaction and the full eternal calm.
On her face, when she was laughing, was the seriousness within;
Her sweetest smiles, (and sweeter did a lover never win,)
In passing, grew so absent that they made her fair cheek thin.
On her face, when she was speaking, thoughts unworded used to live;
So that when she whisper'd to me, ‘Better joy Earth cannot give,’
Her following silence added, ‘But Earth's joy is fugitive.’
For there a nameless something, though suppress'd, still spread around;
The same was on her eyelids, if she look'd towards the ground;
In her laughing, singing, talking, still the same was in the sound;—
A sweet dissatisfaction, which at no time went away,
But shadow'd on her spirit, even at its brightest play,
That her mirth was like the sunshine in the closing of the day.
II
Let none ask joy the highest, save those who would have it end
There's weight in earthly blessings; they are earthy, and they tend,
By predetermin'd impulse, at their highest, to descend.
I still for a happy season, in the present, saw the past,
Mistaking one for the other, feeling sure my hold was fast
On that of which the symbols vanish'd daily: but, at last,
As when we watch bright cloud-banks round about the low sun ranged,
We suddenly remember some rich glory gone or changed,
All at once I comprehended that her love was grown estranged.
From this time, spectral glimpses of a darker fear came on:
They came; but, since I scorn'd them, were no sooner come than gone.—
At times, some gap in sequence frees the spirit, and, anon,
We remember states of living ended ere we left the womb,
And see a vague aurora flashing to us from the tomb,
The dreamy light of new states, dash'd tremendously with gloom.
We tremble for an instant, and a single instant more
Brings absolute oblivion, and we pass on as before!
Ev'n so those dreadful glimpses came, and startled, and were o'er.
III
One morning, one bright morning, Wortley met me. He and I,
As we rode across the country, met a friend of his. His eye
Caught Wortley's, who rode past him. ‘What,’ said he, ‘pass old friends by?
So I've heard your game is grounded! Why your life's one long romance
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poem by Coventry Patmore
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