Gloramone by Madison J. Cawein

A little poem to continue Hallowe’en Week, from Madison Cawein. This recording was released in the public domain through Librivox.

The moonbeams on the hollies glow

Pale where she left me; and the snow

Lies bleak in moonshine on the graves,

Ribbed with each gust that shakes and waves

Ancestral cedars by her tomb….

She lay so beautiful in death,

My Gloramone,—whose loveliness

Death had not dimmed with all its doom,—

That, urged by my divine distress,

I sought her sepulchre: the gloom,

The iciness that takes the breath,

The sense of fear, were not too strong

To keep me from beholding long.

I stole into its sorrow; burst,

With what I know was hand accursed,

Its seal, the gated silence of

Her old armorial tomb: but love

Had sighed sweet romance to my heart;

And here, I thought, another part

[15]

Our souls would play. I did not start

When indistinctness of pale lips

Breathed on my hair; faint finger-tips

Fluttered their starlight on my brow;

When on my eyes, I knew not whence,

Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow,

Within my heart, an aching sense

Of vampire winning. And I heard

Her name slow-syllabled—a word

Of haunting harmony—and then

Low-whispered, “Thou! at last, ’tis thou!”

And sighs of shadowy lips again.

How madly strange that this should be!

For, had she loved me here on Earth,

It had not then been marvelous

That she should now remember me,

Returning love for love, though worth

Less, yes, far less to both of us.

And so I wondered, listening there:

How was it that her soul was brought

So near to mine now, whom in life

She hated so? And everywhere

About my life I thought and thought

And found no reason why her love

Should now be mine. We were at strife

Forever here; her hatred drove

[16]

Me to despair: I cast my glove

Into the frowning face of fate,

And lost her. Yea, it was her hate

That made her Appolonio’s wife.

Her hate! her lovely hate!—for of

Her naught I found unlovely;—and

I felt she did not understand

My passion, and ’twere well to wait.

And now I felt her presence near,

I, full of life; yet knew no fear

There in the sombre silence, mark.

And it was dark, yes, deadly dark:

But when I slowly drew away

The pall, death modeled with her face,—

From her fair form it fell and lay

Rich in the dust,—the shrouded place

Was glittering daggered by the spark

Of one wild ruby at her throat,

Red-arrowed as a star with throbs

Of pulsing flame. And note on note

The night seemed filled with tenuous sobs

Of fire that flickered from that stone,

That, lustrous, lay against her throat,

Large as her eyes, and shadowy.

And standing by the dead alone

I marveled not that this should be.

[17]

The essence of an hundred stars,

Of fretful crimson, through and through

Its bezels beat, when, bending down

My hot lips pressed her mouth. And scars,

Aurora-scarlet, veiny blue,

Flame-hearted, blurred the midnight; and

The vault rang; and I felt a hand

Like fire in mine. And, lo, a frown

Broke up her face as gently as

The surface of a fountain’s glass

A zephyr moves, that jolts the grass

Spilling its rain-drops. When this passed,

Through song-soft slumber, binding fast,

Slow smiles dreamed outward beautiful;

And with each smile I heard the dull

Deep music of her heart, and saw,

As by some necromantic law,

Faint tremblings of a lubric light

Flush her white temples and her throat:

And each long pulse was as a note,

That, gathering, like a strong surprise

With all of happiness, made sweet

With dim carnation in wild wise

The arch of her pale lips, and beat

Like moonlight from her head to feet.

I bent and kissed her once again:

And with that kiss it seemed that pain,

[18]

Which long had ached beneath her smile

And eyelids, vanished. In a while

I saw she breathed. Then, wondrous white,

Fair as she was before she died,

She rose upon the bier; a sight

To marvel at, whose truth belied

All fiction. Yet I saw her eyes

Grow wide unto my kiss,—like skies

Of starless dawn.—And all the fire

Of that dark ruby at her throat

Around her presence seemed to float,

A mist of rose, wherein like light

She moved, or music exquisite.

What followed then I scarcely know:

All I remember is, I caught

Her hand; and from the tomb I brought

Her beautiful: and o’er the snow,

Where moonbeams on the hollies glow,

I led her. But her feet no print

Left of their nakedness, no dint,

No faintest trace in frost. I thought,

“The moonlight fills them with its glow,

So soft they fall; or ’tis the snow

Covers them o’er!—the tomb was black,

And—this strong light blinds!”—Turning back

[19]

My eyes met hers; and as I turned,

Flashing centupled facets, burned

That ruby at her throat; and I

Studied its beauty for a while:

How came it there, and when, and why?

Who set it at her throat? Again,

Was it a ruby?—Pondering,

I stood and gazed. A far, strange smile

Filled all her face, and as with pain

I seemed to hear her speak, or sing,

These words, that meant not anything,

Yet more than any words may mean:

“Thy blood it is,” she said; then sighed:

“See where thy heart’s blood beateth! here

Thy heart’s blood, that my lips did drain

In life; I live by still, unseen,

Long as thy passion shall remain.—

Canst thou behold and have no fear?—

Yea, if I am not dead, ’tis thou!—

Look how thy heart’s blood flashes now!—

Blood of my life and soul, beat on!

Beat on! and fill my veins with dawn;

And heat the heart of me, his bride!”

And then she leaned against me, eyed

Like some white serpent, strangely still,

That binds one with its glittering stare,

[20]

That at wild stars hath gazed until

Its eyes have learned their golden glare.

And then I took her by the wrists

And drew her to me. Faintly felt

The shadow of her hair, whose mists

Were twilight-deep and dimly smelt

Of shroud and sepulchre. And she

Smiled on me with such sorcery

As well might win a soul from God

To Hell and torments. And I trod

On white enchantments and was long

A song and harp-string to a song,

Love’s battle in my blood. And there,

Kissing her mouth, all unaware

The ruby loosened at her throat,

And, ere I wist, hung o’er my hand,

And on the brink I seemed to stand

Of something that cried out, “Admire

The beauty of this gem of fire,

Its witchcraft and its workmanship.”

Then from her throat it seemed to slip,

And, in the hollow of my hand,

A rosy spasm, a bubble-boat

Of living flame, it seemed to float;

A fretful fire; a heart, fierce fanned

Of red convulsions. Like a brand,

[21]

A blaze, it touched me; seemed to run

Like fever through my pulses, swift,

Of torrid poison. One by one,

Now burning ice, now freezing sun,

I felt my veins swell. Then I felt

My palm brim up and overflow

With blood that, beads of oozing glow,

Dripped, drop by drop, upon the snow,

Like holly-berries on the snow.

Then something darkly seemed to melt

Within me, and I heard a sigh

So like a moan, ’twas as if years

Of anguish bore it; and the sky

Swam near me as when seen through tears—

And she was gone…. In ghostly gloom

Of dark, scarred pines a crumbling tomb

Loomed like a mist. Carved in its stone,

Above the grated portal deep,

Glimmered this legend:—

“Let her sleep,

Crowned with dim death, our lovely one,

Known here on Earth as Gloramone.

Our hearts bow down by her and weep,

And one sits weeping all alone.”