The Tree
Its roots are bristling in the airLike some mad Earth-god’s spiny hair;The loud south-wester’s swell and yellSmote it at midnight, and it fell.Thus ends the treeWhere Some One sat with me.
Its boughs, which none but darers trod,A child may step on from the sod,And twigs that earliest met the dawnAre lit the last upon the lawn.Cart off the treeBeneath whose trunk sat we!
Yes, there we sat: she cooed content,And bats ringed round, and daylight went;The gnarl, our seat, is wrenched and sunk,Prone that queer pocket in the trunkWhere lay the keyTo her pale mystery.
“Years back, within this pocket-holeI found, my Love, a hurried scrawlMeant not for me,” at length said I;“I glanced thereat, and let it lie:The words were three—‘Beloved, I agree.’
“Who placed it here; to what requestIt gave assent, I never guessed.Some prayer of some hot heart, no doubt,To some coy maiden hereabout,Just as, maybe,With you, Sweet Heart, and me.”
She waited, till with quickened breathShe spoke, as one who banishethReserves that lovecraft heeds so well,To ease some mighty wish to tell:“’Twas I,” said she,“Who wrote thus clinchingly.
“My lover’s wife—aye, wife!—knew noughtOf what we felt, and bore, and thought . . .He’d said: ‘I wed with thee or die:She stands between, ’tis true. But why?Do thou agree,And—she shalt cease to be.’
“How I held back, how love supremeInvolved me madly in his schemeWhy should I say? . . . I wrote assent(You found it hid) to his intent . . .She—died . . . But heCame not to wed with me.
“O shrink not, Love!—Had these eyes seenBut once thine own, such had not been!But we were strangers . . . Thus the plotCleared passion’s path.—Why came he notTo wed with me? . . .He wived the gibbet-tree.”
—Under that oak of heretoforeSat Sweetheart mine with me no more:By many a Fiord, and Strom, and FleuveHave I since wandered . . . Soon, for love,Distraught went she—’Twas said for love of me.
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