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Title: Stolen Waters
Author: Lewis Carroll [
More Titles by Carroll]
The light was faint, and soft the air
That breathed around the place;
And she was lithe, and tall, and fair,
And with a wayward grace
Her queenly head she bare.
With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye,
She met me on the way:
My spirit owned the witchery
Within her smile that lay:
I followed her, I knew not why.
The trees were thick with many a fruit,
The grass with many a flower:
My soul was dead, my tongue was mute,
In that accursëd hour.
And, in my dream, with silvery voice,
She said, or seemed to say,
"Youth is the season to rejoice--"
I could not choose but stay:
I could not say her nay.
She plucked a branch above her head,
With rarest fruitage laden:
"Drink of the juice, Sir Knight," she said:
"'Tis good for knight and maiden."
Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace--
Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed--
The mocking smile upon her face,
The mocking voice of greed!
I drank the juice; and straightway felt
A fire within my brain:
My soul within me seemed to melt
In sweet delirious pain.
"Sweet is the stolen draught," she said:
"Hath sweetness stint or measure?
Pleasant the secret hoard of bread:
What bars us from our pleasure?"
"Yea, take we pleasure while we may,"
I heard myself replying.
In the red sunset, far away,
My happier life was dying:
My heart was sad, my voice was gay.
And unawares, I knew not how,
I kissed her dainty finger-tips,
I kissed her on the lily brow,
I kissed her on the false, false lips--
That burning kiss, I feel it now!
"True love gives true love of the best:
Then take," I cried, "my heart to thee!"
The very heart from out my breast
I plucked, I gave it willingly:
Her very heart she gave to me--
Then died the glory from the west.
In the gray light I saw her face,
And it was withered, old, and gray;
The flowers were fading in their place,
Were fading with the fading day.
Forth from her, like a hunted deer,
Through all that ghastly night I fled,
And still behind me seemed to hear
Her fierce unflagging tread;
And scarce drew breath for fear.
Yet marked I well how strangely seemed
The heart within my breast to sleep:
Silent it lay, or so I dreamed,
With never a throb or leap.
For hers was now my heart, she said,
The heart that once had been mine own:
And in my breast I bore instead
A cold, cold heart of stone.
So grew the morning overhead.
The sun shot downward through the trees
His old familiar flame:
All ancient sounds upon the breeze
From copse and meadow came--
But I was not the same.
They call me mad: I smile, I weep,
Uncaring how or why:
Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,
What better than to die?
So that the grave be dark and deep.
To die! To die? And yet, methinks,
I drink of life, to-day,
Deep as the thirsty traveler drinks
Of fountain by the way:
My voice is sad, my heart is gay.
When yestereve was on the wane,
I heard a clear voice singing
So sweetly that, like summer-rain,
My happy tears came springing:
My human heart returned again.
"A rosy child,
Sitting and singing, in a garden fair,
The joy of hearing, seeing,
The simple joy of being--
Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair
That ripples free and wild.
"A sweet pale child--
Wearily looking to the purple West--
Waiting the great For-ever
That suddenly shall sever
The cruel chains that hold her from her rest--
By earth-joys unbeguiled.
"An angel-child--
Gazing with living eyes on a dead face:
The mortal form forsaken,
That none may now awaken,
That lieth painless, moveless in her place,
As though in death she smiled!
"Be as a child--
So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath--
So shalt thou wait thy dying,
In holy transport lying--
So pass rejoicing through the gate of death,
In garment undefiled."
Then call me what they will, I know
That now my soul is glad:
If this be madness, better so,
Far better to be mad,
Weeping or smiling as I go.
For if I weep, it is that now
I see how deep a loss is mine,
And feel how brightly round my brow
The coronal might shine,
Had I but kept mine early vow:
And if I smile, it is that now
I see the promise of the years--
The garland waiting for my brow,
That must be won with tears,
With pain--with death--I care not how.
May 9, 1862.
[The end]
Lewis Carroll's poem: Stolen Waters
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