The Sisters Tragedy | Page 8

briar?And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
MEMORY
My mind lets go a thousand things,?Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,?And yet recalls the very hour--?'Twas noon by yonder village tower,?And on the last blue noon in May--?The wind came briskly up this way,?Crisping the brook beside the road;?Then, pausing here, set down its load?Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly?Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
"I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW"
I'll not confer with Sorrow
Till to-morrow;?But Joy shall have her way
This very day.
Ho, eglantine and cresses
For her tresses!--?Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.
Tears if you will--but after
Mirth and laughter;?Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.
A DEDICATION
Take these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting,?Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages?That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.
NO SONGS IN WINTER
The sky is gray as gray may be,?There is no bird upon the bough,?There is no leaf on vine or tree.
In the Neponset marshes now?Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,?Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
So too 'tis winter in my mind,?No light-winged fancy comes and stays:?A season churlish and unkind.
Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days,?The black ink crusts upon the pen--?Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays?And golden orioles come again!
"LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND"
Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand?And seeing a human footprint on the sand,?Have I this day been startled, finding here,?Set in brown mould and delicately clear,?Spring's footprint--the first crocus of the year!?O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude!?Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood?Flock from all sides with much ado and stir,?And make of me most willing prisoner!
THE LETTER
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I held his letter in my hand,
And even while I read?The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice
Was speaking from the page?Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died!
The man himself was here,?His modesty, his scholar's pride,
His soul serene and clear.
These neither death nor time shall dim,
Still this sad thing must be--?Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS"
That face which no man ever saw?And from his memory banished quite,?With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe?And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light,?Looks from this frame. A master's hand?Has set the master-player here,?In the fair temple that he planned?Not for himself. To us most dear?This image of him! "It was thus?He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;?With that same grace he greeted us--?Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!"?Sad words that shall be said some day--?Far fall the day! O cruel Time,?Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,?Spare long this image of his prime,?That others standing in the place?Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,?May know what sweet majestic face?The gentle Prince of Players wore!
PAULINE PAVLOVNA
SCENE: St. Petersburg. Period: the present time. A ballroom in the
winter palace of the Prince--. The ladies in character costumes and masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the exception of six tall figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated with marked distinction as they move here and there among the promenaders. Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. Count SERGIUS PAVLOVICH PANSHINE, who has just
arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway of an antechamber with his eyes fixed upon a lady in the costume of a maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently disengages herself from the crowd, and passes near Count PANSHINE, who?impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her across the threshold of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied.
HE.
Pauline!
SHE.
You knew me?
HE.
How could I have failed??A mask may hide your features, not your soul.?There is an air about you like the air?That folds a star. A blind man knows the night,?And feels the constellations. No coarse sense?Of eye or ear had made you plain to me.?Through these I had not found you; for your eyes,?As blue as violets of our Novgorod,?Look black behind your mask there, and your voice--?I had not known that either. My heart said,?"Pauline Pavlovna."
SHE.
Ah! Your heart said that??You trust your heart, then! 'Tis a serious risk!--?How is it you and others wear no mask?
HE.
The Emperor's orders.
SHE.
Is the Emperor here??I have not seen him.
HE.
He is one of the six?In scarlet kaftans and all masked alike.?Watch--you will note how every one bows down?Before those figures, thinking each by chance?May be the Tsar; yet none knows which is he.?Even his counterparts are left in doubt.?Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore?Such chains as gall our Emperor these sad days.?He dare trust no man.
SHE.
All men are so false.
HE.
Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna.
SHE.
No; all, all!?I think there is no truth left in the world,?In man or woman. Once were noble souls.--?Count Sergius, is