There was a week of bustle and of hurry；
A stately home echoed to voices sweet， Calling， replying； and to tripping feet Of busy bridesmaids， running to and fro， With all that girlish fluttering and flurry Preceding such occasions.
Helen's room Was like a lily-garden， all in bloom， Decked with the dainty robes of her trousseau.
My robe was fashioned by swift， skilful hands - A thing of beauty， elegant and rich， A mystery of loopings， puffs and bands；
And as I watched it growing， stitch by stitch， I felt as one might feel who should behold With vision trance-like， where his body lay In deathly slumber， simulating clay， His grave-cloth sewed together， fold on fold.
I lived with ev'ry nerve upon the strain， As men go into battle； and the pain， That， more and more， to my sad heart revealed Grew ghastly with its horrors， was concealed From mortal eyes by superhuman power， That God bestowed upon me， hour by hour.
What night the Old Year gave unto the New The key of human happiness and woe， The pointed stars， upon their field of blue， Shone， white and perfect， o'er a world below， Of snow-clad beauty； all the trees were dressed In gleaming garments， decked with diadems， Each seeming like a bridal-bidden guest， Coming o'erladen with a gift of gems.
The bustle of the dressing-room； the sound Of eager voices in discourse； the clang Of "sweet bells jangled"； thud of steel-clad feet That beat swift music on the frozen ground - All blent together in my brain， and rang A medley of strange noises， incomplete， And full of discords.
Then out on the night Streamed from the open vestibule， a light That lit the velvet blossoms which we trod， With all the hues of those that deck the sod.
The grand cathedral windows were ablaze With gorgeous colours； through a sea of bloom， Up the long aisle， to join the waiting groom， The bridal cortege passed.
As some lost soul Might surge on with the curious crowd， to gaze Upon its coffined body， so I went With that glad festal throng. The organ sent Great waves of melody along the air， That broke and fell， in liquid drops， like spray， On happy hearts that listened. But to me It sounded faintly， as if miles away， A troubled spirit， sitting in despair Beside the sad and ever-moaning sea， Gave utterance to sighing sounds of dole.
We paused before the altar. Framed in flowers， The white-robed man of God stood forth.
I heard The solemn service open； through long hours I seemed to stand and listen， while each word Fell on my ear as falls the sound of clay Upon the coffin of the worshipped dead.
The stately father gave the bride away：
The bridegroom circled with a golden band The taper finger of her dainty hand.
The last imposing， binding words were said - "What God has joined let no man put asunder" - And all my strife with self was at an end； My lover was the husband of my friend.
How strangely， in some awful hour of pain， External trifles with our sorrows blend！
I never hear the mighty organ's thunder， I never catch the scent of heliotrope， Nor see stained windows all ablaze with light， Without that dizzy whirling of the brain， And all the ghastly feeling of that night， When my sick heart relinquished love and hope.
The pain we feel so keenly may depart， And e'en its memory cease to haunt the heart：
But some slight thing， a perfume， or a sound Will probe the closed recesses of the wound， And for a moment bring the old-time smart.
Congratulations， kisses， tears and smiles， Good-byes and farewells given； then across The snowy waste of weary wintry miles， Back to my girlhoods' home， where， through each room， For evermore pale phantoms of delight Should aimless wander， always in my sight， Pointing， with ghostly fingers， to the tomb Wet with the tears of living pain and loss.
The sleepless nights of watching and of care， Followed by that one week of keenest pain， Taxing my weakened system， and my brain， Brought on a ling'ring illness.
Day by day， In that strange， apathetic state I lay， Of mental and of physical despair.
I had no pain， no fever， and no chill， But lay without ambition， strength， or will.
Knowing no wish for anything but rest， Which seemed， of all God's store of gifts， the best.
Physicians came and shook their heads and sighed； And to their score of questions I replied， With but one languid answer， o'er and o'er， "I am so weary--weary--nothing more."
I slept， and dreamed I was some feathered thing， Flying through space with ever-aching wing， Seeking a ship called Rest all snowy white， That sailed and sailed before me， just in sight， But always one unchanging distance kept， And woke more weary than before I slept.
I slept， and dreamed I ran to win a prize， A hand from heaven held down before my eyes.
All eagerness I sought it--it was gone， But shone in all its beauty farther on.
I ran， and ran， and ran， in eager quest Of that great prize， whereon was written "Rest，"
Which ever just beyond my reach did gleam， And wakened doubly weary with my dream.
I dreamed I was a crystal drop of rain， That saw a snow-white lily on the plain， And left the cloud to nestle in her breast.
I fell and fell， but nevermore found rest - I fell and fell， but found no stopping place， Through leagues and leagues of never-ending space， While space illimitable stretched before.
And all these dreams but wearied me the more.
Familiar voices sounded in my room - Aunt Ruth's， and Roy's， and Helen's： but they seemed A 第一章PART of some strange fancy I had dreamed， And now remembered dimly.
Wrapped in gloom， My mind， o'ertaxed， lost hold of time at last， Ignored its future， and forgot its past， And groped along the present， as a light， Carried， uncovered， through the fogs of night， Will flicker faintly.
But I felt， at length， When March winds brought vague rumours of the spring， A certain sense of "restlessness with rest."
My aching frame was weary of repose， And wanted action.
Then slow-creeping strength Came back with Mem'ry， hand in hand， to bring And lay upon my sore and bleeding breast， Grim-visaged Recollection's thorny rose.