The Sisters Tragedy | Page 8

late, let Time wrong what it may.
II
Unvext by any dream of fame,
You smiled, and bade the world pass
by:
But I--I turned, and saw a name
Shaping itself against the sky--

White star that rose amid the battle's flame!
III
Brief be your sleep, for I would see
Your laurels--ah, how trivial now

To him must earthly laurel be
Who wears the amaranth on his
brow!
How vain the voices of mortality!
SESTET
SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A VOLUME OF TENNYSON
Wouldst know the clash of knightly steel on steel?
Or list the throstle
singing loud and clear?
Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere

In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel
Life's pulse at highest--hark,
the minster's peal! . . .
Turn but the page, that various world is here!
A TOUCH OF NATURE
When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold
Up through the still
snow-drifted garden mould,
And folded green things in dim woods
unclose
Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes
Into my veins
and makes me kith and kin
To every wild-born thing that thrills and
blows.
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,
Here in the city's

ceaseless roar and din,
Far from the brambly paths I used to know,

Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine
Where the Neponset
alders take their glow,
I share the tremulous sense of bud and 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