The ride to the lady, and other poems — Reading Companion

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Authors: Cone, Helen Gray, 1859-1934 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2005 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: American poetry Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

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Words 12,729

Reading time 56 min

Text sections 2

The source record for The ride to the lady, and other poems — Reading Companion measures this digital text at 12,729 words, 56 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.

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Source: Project Gutenberg record #9559

This editorial note examines Helen Gray Cone's 1891 collection, focusing on her diction, dialogue, and descriptive choices in poems such as 'The Ride to the Lady,' 'Thisbe,' and 'The Spring Beauties,' revealing a poet who blends narrative urgency with precise natural imagery.

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Day was dying; the poplars fled, Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of hell. All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. (Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.)

"Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine! Only of thee, of thee, my need! Only to thee, to thee, I speed!" The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.

Far behind had the fight's din died; The shuddering stars in the welkin wide Crowded, crowded, to see him ride. The beating hearts of the stars aloof kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof, "What is the throb that thrills so sweet? Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!" But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell. The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet Not alone with the started sweat.

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,-- But the viewless rider rode to win, Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue, As a garment worn of a wizard grim. He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.

She heard no sound before her gate, Though very quiet was her bower. All was as her hand had left it late: The needle slept on the broidered vine, Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower Her fashioning did wait. On the couch lay something fair, With steadfast lips and veiled eyne;

But the lady was not there, On the wings of shrift and prayer, Pure as winds that winnow snow, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, No whit the nearer to his goal. Now God's great grace assoil the soul That went out in the wood!

When the house is finished, Death enters. _Eastern Proverb_

Life's House being ready all, Each chamber fair and dumb, Ere life, the Lord, is come With pomp into his hall,-- Ere Toil has trod the floors, Ere Love has lit the fires, Or young great-eyed Desires Have, timid, tried the doors; Or from east-window leaned One Hope, to greet the sun, Or one gray Sorrow screened Her sight against the west,-- Then enters the first guest, The House of life being done.

He waits there in the shade. I deem he is Life's twin, For whom the house was made. Whatever his true name, Be sure, to enter in He has both key and claim.

The daybeams, free of fear, Creep drowsy toward his feet; His heart were heard to beat, Were any there to hear; Ah, not for ends malign, Like wild thing crouched in lair, Or watcher of a snare, But with a friend's design He lurks in shadow there!

He goes not to the gates To welcome any other, Nay, not Lord Life, his brother; But still his hour awaits Each several guest to find Alone, yea, quite alone; Pacing with pensive mind The cloister's echoing stone, Or singing, unaware, At the turning of the stair Tis truth, though we forget, In Life's House enters none Who shall that seeker shun, Who shall not so be met. "Is this mine hour?" each saith. "So be it, gentle Death!" Each has his way to end, Encountering this friend. Griefs die to memories mild; Hope turns a weanèd child; Love shines a spirit white, With eyes of deepened light. When many a guest has passed, Some day 'tis Life's at last To front the face of Death. Then, casements closed, men say: "Lord Life is gone away; He went, we trust and pray, To God, who gave him breath." Beginning, End, He is: Are not these sons both His? Lo, these with Him are one! To phrase it so were best: God's self is that first Guest, The House of Life being done!

Why should I sing of earth or heaven? not rather rest, Powerless to speak of that which hath my soul possessed,-- For full possession dumb? Yea, Silence, that were best.

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Helen Gray Cone's 1891 collection The Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems opens with a title poem that immediately establishes a distinctive narrative voice. The speaker's urgent command—'Come bind me, bind me on my steed!'—is rendered in direct, unadorned dialogue, stripped of explanatory context. This choice forces the reader into the scene without preamble, a technique Cone employs repeatedly. Across the volume, she favors concrete physical details over abstract sentiment: the 'sky blood-red,' the 'great-limbed steed,' and the 'dove-soft eyne' ground emotional states in sensory experience. Her diction often shifts between the archaic ('eyne,' 'welkin') and the colloquial ('whine and thee'), creating a texture that feels both historically resonant and immediate.

Narrative Compression in Dialogue

Cone's dialogue frequently carries the weight of exposition. In 'The Ride to the Lady,' the wounded knight's speech—'No time is left my sins to tell'—conveys his desperation and the poem's high stakes without narrative intrusion. The chaplain is dismissed with a single contemptuous line: 'Nor need I more thy whine and thee!' This economy of speech is a hallmark of Cone's style. In 'Thisbe,' the speaker's possessive exclamation—'For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine!'—transforms a simple observation of a rose into a declaration of intimacy. Cone trusts her characters' voices to reveal motive and emotion, often leaving the surrounding description sparse. The effect is a dramatic immediacy that pulls the reader into the moment, as if overhearing a private exchange.

The Natural World as Moral Stage

Cone repeatedly uses natural settings to dramatize internal conflicts. In 'The Spring Beauties,' a 'buff-coat Bee' scolds the flowers for vanity, blending parsonical admonition with soldierly gruffness: 'Vanity, oh, vanity! / Young maids, beware of vanity!' The flowers' reaction—'they hung their little bonnets down'—personifies them as bashful schoolgirls, turning a pastoral scene into a moral vignette. Similarly, 'Kinship' describes a lily 'in a flame red garment dressed' that attracts a moth with matching 'ruby spangle' markings; the two merge into 'a single flower,' suggesting a natural affinity that transcends species. Cone's descriptions are precise—'gilt-girt bee,' 'tawny vans'—and often carry symbolic weight, but she avoids heavy-handed allegory, letting the images speak for themselves.

Rhythmic Variation and Repetition

Cone employs rhythmic patterns to mirror psychological states. In 'The Ride to the Lady,' the pounding trochaic meter—'Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood'—mimics the horse's gallop and the rider's fading pulse. Repetition of 'fast' and 'slow' creates a sense of inexorable motion, while the irregular line lengths disrupt any sing-song predictability. In 'When Willows Green,' the refrain-like questions—'What is it we await? / Who lingers and is late?'—establish a yearning cadence that contrasts with the more declarative stanzas. Cone also uses internal rhyme and alliteration ('flirt, and flirt, and prune their wings' in 'A Nest in a Lyre') to add texture. These choices show a poet attentive to how sound reinforces meaning, whether in the clatter of a death-ride or the quiet of a shaded garden.

Archaic and Colloquial Diction in Tension

Cone's vocabulary oscillates between the elevated and the plain, often within the same poem. In 'The Ride to the Lady,' she uses 'welkin' (sky) and 'eyne' (eyes) alongside the blunt 'whine and thee.' This juxtaposition creates a layered voice that feels both antique and direct. In 'Compensation,' the brook 'ran laughing from the shade'—a simple, active verb—while later lines describe its 'glimmering path a Milky Way,' a more ornate image. The shift is not jarring but deliberate, suggesting a poet who draws from multiple registers. In 'At the Parting of the Ways,' the address 'Comrade Youth' mixes familiarity with formality. Cone's willingness to blend these styles gives her poems a distinctive texture, avoiding the monotony of a single tone and reflecting the varied subjects—from medieval chivalry to domestic nature—that populate the collection.

Readers approaching The Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems will find a poet who values compression and sensory precision. Cone's work rewards attention to word choice and rhythm, as her meanings often reside in the interplay between what is said and what is left unsaid. The excerpts suggest a consistent hand, but the full collection may reveal further range. Consider reading the poems aloud to catch the shifts in pace and diction that define her voice.

Reading about Cone’s “Ride to the Lady” brought back an autumn afternoon when I first stumbled upon her line about “the hush of drifted things.” It reminded me of sitting with Forty-Two Poems — A Closer Reading, where that same quiet ache—distance made tender by precision—felt almost like a hand resting on my shoulder. Some verses simply keep you company.