One Night in Copenhagen

or, Kierkegaard Meets Regina for the Last Time

“God keep you,” she said, and nervously paused before him.
She had been his betrothed and beloved – let her heart adore him,
Revere him, make a donative of her youth,
But that was before he abandoned her for the truth,
For a life of reflection, devoted to all mankind,
Devoted to God – at least, so it seemed to his mind.
Now she stood before him once more on the eve of her parting
To the separate life that she and her husband were starting
In the Caribbean, and he, he eyed her with wonder,
As the glow from the gas-lamp fell on her cheek and under
The raven curls unfolding along her shoulder -
Just as graceful a face, though some twenty winters older,
As when it had leaned against his own young cheek.
He fumbled his hat, and vainly struggled to speak.
He wanted to say how sorry he was for the act
That had hurt her, how sure he was at the time of the fact
He acted with virtue, that sometimes he seemed to hear
A strange voice out of heaven, not typically heard in our sphere,
Commanding him to forswear and forfeit all,
If he would be true to his Master’s jealous call,
If he would spend his great talent adequately.
But also, he wanted to say that he loved her greatly,
That since that time not a day – not an hour – went by
But some vision of her and her grace would occupy
The stores of his memory, that often he wondered how life
Would have past, with what peace, had he taken her then for his wife,
And as often he wondered whether indeed he had made
The nobler decision, but time went by, and had laid
Her petrifying hand on that distant choice.
Regina looked up at him, and attempted to voice
The unclear emotions troubling the well of her brain –
She wanted to say she forgave him the act and the pain
It had caused her in youth; though she never could comprehend
The hard pilgrimage he made of his life, in the end
She knew he did all to serve God to the best of his light,
And that she, a young girl, and naïve, however she might
Rebel at the truth, she could never expect that her beauty
Would rival the claim on his life or his light of the duty
That heaven imposed, but that still remembrance had kept 
A place of affection for him, and sometimes she wept
When she thought of his gentle ways, as she wept when young.
So she wanted to say, but the words would not form on her tongue,
And she only stood restless before him, shy, and repeating
The very words she had barely whispered in greeting:
“God keep you,” she said, “and may all go well with you.”
Soren was paralyzed with sorrow all through,
And could only manage to make an awkward bow
And walk on with heavy and hesitant shuffle, and now
The ambient light of the gas-lamp glows thin on a street
That is empty, as round the corner the sound of her feet
Fades away, and he, he climbs the ill-lit stairs
That lead to his studious chambers, and all that he hears
Is the harsh, distinct noise of his steps as they fall
On the wood, and reverberate through the silent hall.