THE PASSING
by: Arthur Conan Doyle
(1859-1930)
- T was the hour of dawn,
- When the heart beats thin and small,
- The window glimmered grey,
- Framed in a shadow wall.
-
- And in the cold sad light
- Of the early morningtide,
- The dear dead girl came back
- And stood by his beside.
-
- The girl he lost came back:
- He saw her flowing hair;
- It flickered and it waved
- Like a breath in frosty air.
-
- As in a steamy glass,
- Her face was dim and blurred;
- Her voice was sweet and thin,
- Like the calling of a bird.
-
- 'You said that you would come,
- You promised not to stay;
- And I have waited here,
- To help you on the way.
-
- 'I have waited on,
- But still you bide below;
- You said that you would come,
- And oh, I want you so!
-
- 'For half my soul is here,
- And half my soul is there,
- When you are on the earth
- And I am in the air.
-
- 'But on your dressing-stand
- There lies a triple key;
- Unlock the little gate
- Which fences you from me.
-
- 'Just one little pang,
- Just one throb of pain,
- And then your weary head
- Between my breasts again.'
-
- In the dim unhomely light
- Of the early morningtide,
- He took the triple key
- And he laid it by his side.
-
- A pistol, silver chased,
- An open hunting knife,
- A phial of the drug
- Which cures the ill of life.
-
- He looked upon the three,
- And sharply drew his breath:
- 'Now help me, oh my love,
- For I fear this cold grey death.'
-
- She bent her face above,
- She kissed him and she smiled;
- She soothed him as a mother
- May sooth a frightened child.
-
- 'Just that little pang, love,
- Just a throb of pain,
- And then your weary head
- Between my breasts again.'
-
- He snatched the pistol up,
- He pressed it to his ear;
- But a sudden sound broke in,
- And his skin was raw with fear.
-
- He took the hunting knife,
- He tried to raise the blade;
- It glimmered cold and white,
- And he was sore afraid.
-
- He poured the potion out,
- But it was thick and brown;
- His throat was sealed against it,
- And he could not drain it down.
-
- He looked to her for help,
- And when he looked -- behold!
- His love was there before him
- As in the days of old.
-
- He saw the drooping head,
- He saw the gentle eyes;
- He saw the same shy grace of hers
- He had been wont to prize.
-
- She pointed and she smiled,
- And lo! he was aware
- Of a half-lit bedroom chamber
- And a silent figure there.
-
- A silent figure lying
- A-sprawl upon a bed,
- With a silver-mounted pistol
- Still clotted to his head.
-
- And as he downward gazed,
- Her voice came full and clear,
- The homely tender voice
- Which he had loved to hear:
-
- 'The key is very certain,
- The door is sealed to none.
- You did it, oh, my darling!
- And you never knew it done.
-
- 'When the net was broken,
- You thought you felt its mesh;
- You carried to the spirit
- The troubles of the flesh.
-
- 'And are you trembling still, dear?
- Then let me take your hand;
- And I will lead you outward
- To a sweet and restful land.
-
- 'You know how once in London
- I put my griefs on you;
- But I can carry yours now--
- Most sweet it is to do!
-
- 'Most sweet it is to do, love,
- And very sweet to plan
- How I, the helpless woman,
- Can help the helpful man.
-
- 'But let me see you smiling
- With the smile I know so well;
- Forget the world of shadows,
- And the empty broken shell.
-
- 'It is the worn-out garment
- In which you tore a rent;
- You tossed it down, and carelessly
- Upon your way you went.
-
- 'It is not you, my sweetheart,
- For you are here with me.
- That frame was but the promise of
- The thing that was to be--
-
- 'A tuning of the choir
- Ere the harmonies begin;
- And yet it is the image
- Of the subtle thing within.
-
- 'There's not a trick of body,
- There's not a trait of mind,
- But you bring it over with you,
- Ethereal, refined,
-
- 'But still the same; for surely
- If we alter as we die,
- You would be you no longer,
- And I would not be I.
-
- 'I might be an angel,
- But not the girl you knew;
- You might be immaculate,
- But that would not be you.
-
- 'And now I see you smiling,
- So, darling, take my hand;
- And I will lead you outward
- To a sweet and pleasant land,
-
- 'Where thought is clear and nimble,
- Where life is pure and fresh,
- Where the soul comes back rejoicing
- From the mud-bath of the flesh
-
- 'But still that soul is human,
- With human ways, and so
- I love my love in spirit,
- As I loved him long ago.'
-
- So with hands together
- And fingers twining tight,
- The two dead lovers drifted
- In the golden morning light.
-
- But a grey-haired man was lying
- Beneath them on a bed,
- With a silver-mounted pistol
- Still clotted to his head.
"The Passing" is reprinted
from Songs of Action. A. Conan Doyle. London: John Murray,
1916. |
MORE POEMS BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE |
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