The Tyrant
ONE comes with foot insistent to my door,
Calling my name;
Nor voice nor footstep have I heard before,
Yet clear the calling sounds and o’er and o’er—
It seems the sunlight burns along the floor
With paler flame!
“’Tis vain to call with morning on the wing,
With noon so near,
With Life a dancer in the masque of Spring
And Youth new wedded with a golden ring—
When falls the night and birds have ceased to sing
My heart may hear!
“’Tis vain to pause. Pass, friend, upon your way!
I may not heed;
Too swift the hours; too sweet, too brief the day:
Only one life, one spring, one perfect May—
I crush each moment, with its sweets to stay
Life’s joyous greed!
“Call not again! The wind is roaming by
Across the heath—
The Wind’s a tell-tale and will bear your sigh
To dim the smiling gladness of the sky
Or kill the spring’s first violets that lie
In purple sheath—
“If you must call, call low! My heart grows still,
Still as my breath,
Still as your smile, O Ancient One! A chill
Strikes through the sun upon the window-sill—
I know you now—I follow where you will,
O tyrant Death!”