Faces in the Fire January 1860
The Dream of Fame October 1861
The Three Sunsets November 1861
Stolen Waters May 1862
The Valley of the Shadow of Death April 1868
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I watch the drowsy night expire,
And Fancy paints at my desire,
Her magic pictures in the fire.
An island-farm 'mid seas of corn,
Swayed by the wandering breath of morn,
The happy spot where I was born.
The picture fadeth in its place;
Amid the glow I seem to trace
The shifting semblance of a face.
'Tis now a little childish form,
Red lips for kisses pouted warm,
And elf-locks tangled in the storm.
'Tis now a grave and gentle maid,
At her own beauty half afraid,
Shrinking, yet willing to be stayed.
'Tis now a matron with her boys,
Dear centre of domestic joys:
I seem to hear the merry noise.
Oh, time was young, and life was warm,
When first I saw that fairy form,
Her dark hair tossing in the storm;
And fast and free these pulses played,
When last I met that gentle maid-
When last her hand in mine was laid.
Those locks of jet are turned to grey,
And she is strange and far away,
That might have been mine own to-day-
That might have been mine own, my dear,
Through many and many a. happy year,
That might have sat beside me here.
Ay, changeless through the changing scene,
The ghostly whisper rings between
The dark refrain of "might have been."
The race is o'er I might have run,
The deeds are past I might have done,
And sere the wreath I might have won.
Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze;
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze.
The pictures with their ruddy light
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night.
1.
He saw her once, and in the glance,
A moment's glance of meeting eyes,
His heart stood still in sudden trance,
He trembled with a sweet surprise-
As one that caught through opening skies
A distant gleam of Paradise.
2.
That summer eve his heart was light,
With lighter step he trod the ground,
And life was fairer in his sight,
And music was in every sound.
He blessed the world where there could be
So beautiful a thing as she.
3
But days went by - he found her not;
And years rolled on - she never came;
Though ever round the fatal spot
A mocking whisper of her name
In hollow whispers seemed to roll
Through the dark chambers of his soul.
4
From land to land he sought her face;
To him were neither night nor day;
The phantom he was doomed to chase
Still glided from his touch away;
And life that once had been so bright
Seemed but a dream of yesternight.
5
So after many years he came
A wanderer from a distant shore:
The street, the house, were still the same,
But those he sought were there no more;
His burning words, his hopes and fears,
Unheeded, fell on alien ears.
6
Only the children from their play
Would pause the mournful tale to hear,
Shrinking in half-alarm away,
Or step by step would venture near,
To touch with timid curious hands
That strange wild man from other lands.
7
He sat beside the busy street
There, where he last had seen her face;
And thronging memories, bitter-sweet
Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place :
Her footfall ever floated near:
Her voice was ever in his ear.
8
He sometimes as the daylight waned
And evening mists began to roll
In half soliloquy complained
Of that black shadow in his soul
And blindly fanned with cruel care
The ashes of a vain despair.
9
The summer fled; the lonely man
Still lingered out the lessening days;
Still as the night drew on, would scan
Each passing face with closer gaze,
Till sick at heart he turned away,
And sighed, "She will not come today".
10
So by degrees his spirit bent
To mock its own despairing cry,
In stern self-torture to invent
New luxuries of agony,
And people all the vacant space
With visions of her perfect face:
11
That perfect face whose smile to own
Men dare to live and fools to die,
Dearer than wealth or power or throne,
Sweeter than sweetest harmony:
That oftenest cheers their lonely lot
Who live their life and heed it not.
12
Sometimes he felt that she was nigh;
He heard no step, but she was there;
As if an angel suddenly
Were bodied from the viewless air,
And all her fine ethereal frame
Should fade as swiftly as it came.
13
So half in Fancy's sunny trance,
And half in Misery's aching void,
With set and stony countenance
His bitter being he enjoyed,
And thrust for ever from his mind
The happiness he could not find.
14
As when the wretch in lonely room
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume
Shuts out the wholesome living world -
So all his manhood, strength and pride
One sickly dream had set aside.
15
And so it chanced once more that she
Came by the old familiar spot;
The face he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not;
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear,
Even when happiness was near.
16
And pity filled her gentle breast
For him that would not stir nor speak;
The dying crimson of the West
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,
Fell on her as she stood, and shed
A glory round the patient head.
17
Ah, let him wake! The moments fly;
This awful tryst may be the last;
And see, the tear that dimmed her eye
Had fallen on him e'er she passed -
She passed: the crimson paled to grey
And hope departed with the day.
18
The heavy hours of night went by,
And silence quickened into sound,
And light slid up the eastern sky,
And life began its daily round.
But light and life for him were fled:
His name was numbered with the dead.
CLD, Christ Church
In November 1861, just a month after completing 'The Dream of Fame', Dodgson rewrote it as 'The Three Sunsets' He restructured the first verse, rewrote verses 3 and 4, cut verse 11, and between the old verses 14 and 15 he inserted two new verses.
He saw her once, and in the glance
A moment's glance of meeting eyes,
His heart stood still in sudden trance
He trembled with a sweet surprise-
All in the waning light she stood
The star of perfect womanhood
That summer eve his heart was light
With lighter step he trod the ground
And life was fairer in his sight
And music was in every sound
He blessed the world where there could be
So beautiful a thing as she
There once again, as evening fell
And stars were peering overhead,
Two lovers met to bid farewell:
The western sun gleamed faint and red
Lost in a drift of purple cloud
That wrapped him like a funeral shroud
Long time the memory of that night-
The hand that clasped, the lips that kissed,
The form that faded from his sight
Slow sinking through the tearful mist -
In dreamy music seemed to roll
Through the dark chambers of his soul.
So after many years he came
A wanderer from a distant shore:
The street, the house, were still the same,
But those he sought were there no more;
His burning words, his hopes and fears,
Unheeded, fell on alien ears.
Only the children from their play
Would pause the mournful tale to hear,
Shrinking in half-alarm away,
Or step by step would venture near,
To touch with timid curious hands
That strange wild man from other lands.
He sat beside the busy street
There, where he last had seen her face;
And thronging memories, biiter-sweet
Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place :
Her footfall ever floated near:
Her voice was ever in his ear.
He sometimes as the daylight waned
And evening mists began to roll
In half soliloquy complained
Of that black shadow in his soul
And blindly fanned with cruel care
The ashes of a vain despair.
The summer fled; the lonely man
Still lingered out the lessening days;
Still as the night drew on, would scan
Each passing face with closer gaze,
Till sick at heart he turned away,
And sighed, "She will not come today".
So by degrees his spirit bent
To mock its own despairing cry
In stern self torture to invent
New luxuries of agony,
And people all the vacant space
With visions of her perfect face.
Then for a moment she was nigh;
He heard no step, but she was there;
As if an angel suddenly
Were bodied from the viewless air,
And all here fine ethereal frame
Should fade as swiftly as it came.
So half in Fancy's sunny trance,
And half in Misery's aching void,
With set and stony countenance
His bitter being he enjoyed,
And thrust for ever from his mind
The happiness he could not find.
As when the wretch in lonely room
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume
Shuts out the wholesome living world -
So all his manhood, strength and pride
One sickly dream had set aside.
Yea brother and we passed him there
But yesterday, in merry mood
And marvelled at the lordly air
That shamed his beggar's attitude
Nor heeded that ourselves might be
Wretches as desperate as he
Who let the thought of bliss denied
Make havoc of our life and powers
And pine in solitary pride
For peace that never shall be ours,
Because we will not work and wait
In trustful patience for our fate.
And so it chanced once more that she
Came by the old familiar spot;
The face that he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not;
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear,
Even when happiness was near.
And pity filled her gentle breast
For him that would not stir nor speak;
The dying crimson of the West
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,
Fell on her as she stood, and shed
A glory round the patient head.
Ah, let him wake! The moments fly;
This awful tryst may be the last;
And see, the tear that dimmed her eye
Had fallen on him e'er she passed -
She passed: the crimson paled to grey
And hope departed with the day .
The heavy hours of night went by,
And silence quickened into sound,
And light slid up the eastern sky,
And life began its daily round.
But light and life for him were fled:
His name was numbered with the dead.
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 know 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 accursed hour.
And in my dream, with silvery voice
She said or seemed to say
'Youth is the season to rejoice'-
I could not say her nay,
I could not choose but stay.
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 my eyes that would not trace:
Oh deaf my 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 know 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
The grass was fading where we lay.
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 my own,
And in my breast I bore instead
A cold cold heart of stone;
So grew the morning overhead.
The sun shone downward throught 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?
To die! To die? And yet,
I drink of Life today
Deep as the thirsty traveller 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 roses in the golden hair
That ripples free and wild
A sweet pale child -
Wearily looking to the purple west -
Waiting the great Forever
That suddeny 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 my 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.
CLD, Christ Church
HARK said the dying man, and sighed,
To that complaining tone-
Like sprite condemned, each eventide,
To walk the world alone.
At sunset, when the air is still,
I hear it creep from yonder hill:
It breathes upon me, dead and chill,
A moment, and is gone.
My son, it minds me of a day
Left half a life behind,
That I have prayed to put away
For ever from my mind.
But bitter memory will not die:
It haunts my soul when none is nigh:
I hear its whisper in the sigh
Of that complaining wind.
And now in death my soul is fain
To tell the tale of fear
That hidden in my breast hath lain
Through many a weary year:
Yet time would fail to utter all-
The evil spells that held me thrall,
And thrust my life from fall to fall,
Thou needest not to hear.
The spells that bound me with a chain,
Sin's stern behests to do,
Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain,
A heavy burden grew-
Till from my spirit's fevered eye,
A hunted thing, I seemed to fly
Through the dark woods that underlie
Yon mountain-range of blue.
Deep in those woods I found a vale
No sunlight visiteth,
Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale;
Where never comes the breath
Of summer-breeze- there in mine ear,
Even as I lingered half in fear,
I heard a whisper, cold and clear,
"That is the gate of Death.
"O bitter is it to abide
In weariness alway:
At dawn to sigh for eventide,
At eventide for day.
Thy noon hath fled: thy sun hath shone:
The brightness of thy day is gone:
What need to lag and linger on
Till life be cold and gray?
<
"O well," it said, "beneath yon pool,
In some still cavern deep,
The fevered brain might slumber cool,
The eyes forget to weep:
Within that goblet's mystic rim
Are draughts of healing, stored for him
Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim,
Who prayeth but to sleep!"
The evening-breeze went moaning by,
Like mourner for the dead,
And stirred, with shrill complaining sigh,
The tree-tops overhead:
My guardian-angel seemed to stand
And mutely wave a warning hand-
With sudden terror all unmanned,
I turned myself and fled!
A cottage-gate stood open wide:
Soft fell the dying ray
On two fair children, side by side,
That rested from their play-
Together bent the earnest head,
As ever and anon they read
From one dear Book: the words they said
Come back to me to-day.
Like twin cascades on mountain-stair
Together wandered down
The ripples of the golden hair,
The ripples of the brown:
While, through the tangled silken haze,
Blue eyes looked forth in eager gaze,
More starlike than the gems that blaze
About a monarch's crown.
My son, there comes to each an hour
When sinks the spirit's pride-
When weary hands forget their power
The strokes of death to guide:
In such a moment, warriors say,
A word the panic-rout may stay,
A sudden charge redeem the day
And turn the living tide.
-
I could not see, for blinding tears,
The glories of the west:
A heavenly music filled mine ears,
A heavenly peace my breast.
"Come unto Me, come unto Me-
All ye that labour, unto Me-
Ye heavy-laden, come to Me-
And I will give you rest."
The night drew onwards: thin and blue
The evening mists arise
To bathe the thirsty land in dew,
As erst in Paradise-
While, over silent field and town,
The deep blue vault of heaven looked down;
Not, as of old, in angry frown,
But bright with angels' eyes.
Blest day! Then first I heard the voice
That since hath oft beguiled
These eyes from tears, and bid rejoice
This heart with anguish wild-
Thy mother, boy, thou hast not known;
So soon she left me here to moan-
Left me to weep and watch, alone,
Our one beloved child.
Though, parted from my aching sight,
Like homeward-speeding dove,
She passed into the perfect light
That floods the world above;
Yet our twin spirits, well I know-
Though one abide in pain below-
Love, as in summers long ago,
And evermore shall love.
So with a glad and patient heart
I move toward mine end:
The streams, that flow awhile apart,
Shall both in ocean blend.
I dare not weep: I can but bless
The Love that pitied my distress,
And lent me, in Life's wilderness,
So sweet and true a friend.
But if there be- O if there be
A truth in what they say,
That angel-forms we cannot see
Go with us on our way;
Then surely she is with me here,
I dimly feel her spirit near-
The morning-mists grow thin and clear,
And Death brings in the Day.