Poems (Spofford)/Twain

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TWAIN.
Once they were one, as the light is,
  Whose colors are seven,
Whose source is the ancient of ancients,
  Whose splendor fills heaven.

And as blossoms are bright in the sunshine,
  Birds build, and bees murmur,
So all things took root in their gladness,
  Grew greater and firmer.

But now! Have you looked on two shadows
  Two storm-clouds are urging
Over wastes of disaster and ruin
  That tempests are scourging?

Ah, as utterly twain as such shadows
  Are they, in whose gladness
All things that were glad now are fallen
  The wreck of their madness!

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Sad souls, that were able to torture
  Such pangs from such blisses,
Shall the years after death ever bring you
  No nearer than this is?

Shall the red rose of love fail to bourgeon
  In fields always sunny,
And the flower whose thorns had your hearts' blood
  Refuse you its honey?

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