So our love to fulness grew, Whilst beneath the solemn Yew Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, As it were some fancied sight Blanched it with a dread affright.
Telka, she was passing fair; And our peace was perfect there Till, enchanted by her smile, Lurked the South Wind there awhile, Underneath that hillside tree Where with singing idled we, And I heard the South Wind say Flattering words to her that day Of a city far away. But the Yew-tree crouched as though It were like to whisper No To the words the South Wind said As he smoothed my Telka's head. And the Brook, all pleading, cried To the dear one at my side: "Linger always where I am; Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! Wander not where shadows deep On the treacherous quicksands sleep, And the haunted waters leap; Be thou ware the waves that flow Toward the prison pool below, Where, beguiled from yonder sky, Captive moonbeams shivering lie, And at dawn of morrow die." So the Brook to Telka cried, But my Telka naught replied; And, as in a strange affright, Paled the Rose a ghostlier white.
When anon the North Wind came,-- Rudely blustering Telka's name, And he kissed the leaves that grew Round about the trembling Yew,-- Kissed and romped till, blushing red, All one day in terror fled, And the white Rose hung her head; Coming to our trysting spot, Long I called; she answered not. "Telka!" pleadingly I cried Up and down the mountain-side Where we twain were wont to bide.
There were those who thought that I Could be silenced with a lie, And they told me Telka's name Should be spoken now with shame: "She is lost to us and thee,"-- That is what they said to me.
"Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. "On this hilltop shall I cry, So that she may hear and then Find her way to me again. The South Wind spoke a lie that day; All deceived, she lost her way Yonder where the shadows sleep 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap Over treacherous quicksands deep, And where captive moonbeams lie Doomed at morrow's dawn to die She is lost, and that is all; I will search for her, and call."
Summer comes and winter goes, Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; All the others are anear,-- Only Telka is not here! Gone the peace and love I knew Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; And the Rose, that mocks me so, I had crushed it long ago But that Telka loved it then, And shall soothe its terror when She comes back to me again. Call I, seek I everywhere For my Telka, passing fair. It is, oh, so many a year I have called! She does not hear, Yet nor feared nor worn am I; For I know that if I cry She shall sometime hear my call. She is lost, and that is all,-- She is lost in some far spot; I have searched, and found it not. Could she hear me calling, then Would she come to me again; For she loved me passing well,-- How I love her none can tell! That is why these years I've cried "Telka!" on this mountain-side. "Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; Answer me the woods and sky, And the lonely years go by.