The Daguerreotype by William Vaughn Moody

This, then, is she,My mother as she looked at seventeen,When she first met my father. Young incredibly,Younger than spring, without the faintest traceOf disappointment, weariness, or teanUpon the childlike earnestness and graceOf the waiting face.Those close-wound ropes of pearl(Or common beads made precious by their use)Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear;But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bareAnd half the glad swell of the breast, for newsThat now the woman stirs within the girl.And yet,Even so, the loops and globesOf beaten goldAnd jetHung, in the stately way of old,From the ears' drooping lobesOn festivals and Lord's-day of the week,Show all too matron-sober for the cheek, --Which, now I look again, is perfect child,Or no -- or no -- 't is girlhood's very self,Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elfSo meek, so maiden mild,But startling the close gazer with the senseOf passions forest-shy and forest-wild,And delicate delirious merriments.

As a moth beats sidewiseAnd up and over, and triesTo skirt the irresistible lureOf the flame that has him sure,My spirit, that is none too strong to-day,Flutters and makes delay, --Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips,Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hairAnd each hid radiance there,But powerless to stem the tide-race bright,The vehement peace which drifts it toward the lightWhere soon -- ah, now, with criesOf grief and giving-up unto its gainIt shrinks no longer nor denies,But dipsHurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain, --And all is well, for I have seen them plain,The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes!Across the blinding gush of these good tearsThey shine as in the sweet and heavy yearsWhen by her bed and chairWe children gathered jealously to shareThe sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme,Where the sore-stricken body made a climeGentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme,Holier and more mystical than prayer.

God, how thy ways are strange!That this should be, even this,The patient headWhich suffered years ago the dreary change!That these so dewy lips should be the sameAs those I stooped to kissAnd heard my harrowing half-spoken name,A little ere the one who bowed above her,Our father and her very constant lover,Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead.Then I, who could not understand or shareHis antique nobleness,Being unapt to bearThe insults which time flings us for our proof,Fled from the horrible roofInto the alien sunshine merciless,The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day,Raging to front God in his pride of swayAnd hurl across the lifted swords of fateThat ringed Him where He satMy puny gage of scorn and desolate hateWhich somehow should undo Him, after all!That this girl face, expectant, virginal,Which gazes out at meBoon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth(Save for the eyes, with other presage stored)To pledge me troth,And in the kingdom where the heart is lordTake sail on the terrible gladness of the deepWhose winds the gray Norns keep, --That this should be indeedThe flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed,Out of the to and froOf scattering hands where the seedsman Mage,Stooping from star to star and age to ageSings as he sows!That underneath this breastNine moons I fedDeep of divine unrest,While over and over in the dark she said,"Blessed! but not as happier children blessed" --That this should beEven she . . .God, how with time and changeThou makest thy footsteps strange!Ah, now I knowThey play upon me, and it is not so.Why, 't is a girl I never saw before,A little thing to flatter and make weep,To tease until her heart is sore,Then kiss and clear the score;A gypsy run-the-fields,A little liberal daughter of the earth,Good for what hour of truancy and mirthThe careless season yieldsHither-side the flood of the year and yonder of the neap;Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes. --O shrined above the skies,Frown not, clear brow,Darken not, holy eyes!Thou knowest well I know that it is thouOnly to save me from such memoriesAs would unman me quite,Here in this web of strangeness caughtAnd prey to troubled thoughtDo I deviseThese foolish shifts and slight;Only to shield me from the afflicting senseOf some waste influenceWhich from this morning face and lustrous hairBreathes on me sudden ruin and despair.In any other guise,With any but this girlish depth of gaze,Your coming had not so unsealed and pouredThe dusty amphoras where I had storedThe drippings of the winepress of my days.I think these eyes foresee,Now in their unawakened virgin time,Their mother's pride in me,And dream even now, unconsciously,Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung leaYou pictured I should climb.Broken premonitions come,Shapes, gestures visionary,Not as once to maiden MaryThe manifest angel with fresh lilies cameIntelligibly calling her by name;But vanishingly, dumb,Thwarted and bright and wild,As heralding a sin-defiled,Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child,Who yet should be a trump of mighty callBlown in the gates of evil kingsTo make them fall;Who yet should be a sword of flame beforeThe soul's inviolate doorTo beat away the clang of hellish wings;Who yet should be a lyreOf high unquenchable desireIn the day of little things. --Look, where the amphoras,The yield of many days,Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self,And set upon the shelfIn sullen prideThe Vineyard-master's tasting to abide --O mother mine!Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine,Of him you used to praise?Emptied and overthrownThe jars lie strown.These, for their flavor duly nursed,Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed;These, I thought honied to the very seal,Dry, dry, -- a little acid meal,A pinch of mouldy dust,Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must;These, rude to look upon,But flasking up the liquor dearest won,Through sacred hours and hard,With watching and with wrestlings and with grief,Even of these, of these in chief,The stale breath sickens reeking from the shard.Nothing is left. Aye, how much less than naught!What shall be said or thoughtOf the slack hours and waste imaginings,The cynic rending of the wings,Known to that froward, that unreckoning heartWhereof this brewage was the precious part,Treasured and set away with furtive boast?O dear and cruel ghost,Be merciful, be just!See, I was yours and I am in the dust.Then look not so, as if all things were well!Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame,Or else, if gaze they must,Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame;But by the ways of light ineffableYou bade me go and I have faltered from,By the low waters moaning out of hellWhereto my feet have come,Lay not on me these intolerableLooks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!

Nothing dismayed?By all I say and all I hint not madeAfraid?O then, stay by me! LetThese eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet,Brave eyes and true!See how the shrivelled heart, that long has lainDead to delight and pain,Stirs, and begins againTo utter pleasant life, as if it knewThe wintry days were through;As if in its awakening boughs it heardThe quick, sweet-spoken bird.Strong eyes and brave,Inexorable to save!