Millicent Passes

Don't let him be my pall bearer, don't let him!
Yes, do! For I have loved…only him!
But him!…give me the morphia…. And so
Although I did, then, marry the other,
That half-man, half-squirrel in the cage
Of his small ego spun by smug conceit,
The man I love must bear me to the grave—
At the coffin's head, upon the left side,
That he may know how heavy my heart was.
What a life! what…what a life!
And I was beautiful!…give me the morphia
With brow and lips and eyes made to delight,
And with such joy to ripple in my laughter,
You have said so yourself, as only the lark
Winging can take the heart with—such wild joy:
Yet all so vain to hold him that I loved!
And why, why, I ask, appeaselessly!
Another woman has, and he is happy,
Breathing in life as if it were a fragrance:
While I for ten years watched that spinning cage
Of the other whom I loathed—that squirrel soul,
Which could not fancy why my heart grew bitter,
And why I wanted to tear the sky to tatters
And strangle the world in it; or why I pined,
Although all saw my love…of one who now
Shall help—but that!-—to lay me under earth.
But that!…And yet, let him: on the left side,
Where my dead heart with woe will be so heavy
That it shall weight him down remembering.
What a life! what…what a life!
A childhood torn by temper, rapture, tears;
A girlhood by delirious ideals.
Love—a happy day or two in the woods,
The enchanted woods of joy, through which we pass
And find our peace, or wander and are lost.
Knowledge, then, that bliss is brevity.
Then marriage to that other, at whose side
In the bed of earth I now must go to lie…
Though it is false, I say!…give me the morphia…
That I first broke his heart, as mine is broken,
And sent him there! False!…He but wore out,
Spinning within his little ego-cage
Of glib desires, that led to vanity:
A cage so wearisome that when I lie
In earth by him and feel it spinning round,
I shall scream out to God, if God there be,
To let me forth, to set me free of him:
For the shame of couching there will be so much
That should the other send me death-flowers,
And the wreaths of them touch me, even through
The coffin…they will wither, if they are lilies,
Before the funeral words are spent. But if.
If they are roses, and one is not white,
Lay them upon my breast…. Give me the morphia.
What a life! What…what a death!
Yet I could sing once—and was beautiful!—
Sing!…melodies blossomed at my lips.
But were birds, too, ill-mated, they would cease
In time, to sing, they too—and boughs become
As bare of music as my breast of peace
Which he I love will never cease to know,
For still he loves music!…And when he bears me
Out of those doors, will hear, perhaps, the strains
Of that great funeral march—Chopin's, I played him—
Sounding within his soul's deep sadnesses—
Hear, but only, only as if for another,
Unless he feels my dead heart's heaviness.
It is too much! too much!…give me the morphia…
Not merely I should die, but all the living,
All earth's abortive millions should lie down
And say, 'Whoever made us, God or Chance,
Has but mismade us!'…Then there would not surge
That crying out for love that never comes,
True-mated love for all: which of all things
Can keep faith's universe from falling apart,
And prove God is the mystery that binds it.
Yet he I loved…he that I love, believes;
So I too must not pass from life unpraying.
Our Father, which art in Heaven…give me the morphia…