The Sisters' Tragedy [11]
Warm lips met ours and conquered us Or ere thou wert, Copernicus!
Graybeards, who seek to bridge the chasm 'Twixt man to-day and protoplasm, Who theorize and probe and gape, And finally evolve an ape-- Yours is a harmless sort of cult, If you are pleased with the result. Some folks admit, with cynic grace, That you have rather proved your case. These dogmatists are so severe! Enough for me that Fanny's here, Enough that, having long survived Pre-Eveic forms, she HAS arrived-- An illustration the completest Of the survival of the sweetest.
Linnaeus, avaunt! I only care To know what flower she wants to wear. I leave it to the addle-pated To guess how pinks originated, As if it mattered! The chief thing Is that we have them in the Spring, And Fanny likes them. When they come, I straightway send and purchase some. The Origin of Plants--go to! Their proper end _I_ have in view.
O loveliest book that ever man Looked into since the world began Is Woman! As I turn those pages, As fresh as in the primal ages, As day by day I scan, perplext, The ever subtly changing text, I feel that I am slowly growing To think no other work worth knowing. And in my copy--there is none So perfect as the one I own-- I find no thing set down but such As teaches me to love it much.
L'EAU DORMANTE
Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book. In vain he tries to win a look, And from the trellis over there Blows sundry kisses through the air, Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.
My lad, if you, without abuse, Will take advice from one who's wiser, And put his wisdom to more use Than ever yet did your adviser;
If you will let, as none will do, Another's heartbreak serve for two, You'll have a care, some four years hence, How you lounge there by yonder fence And blow those kisses through that screen-- For Lydia will be seventeen.
THALIA
A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS BROUGHT HIM HIS HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD HAIR FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK:
I say it under the rose-- oh, thanks!--yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; we are not going to quarrel.
We have too long been friends on foot and in gilded coaches, Now that the whole thing ends, to spoil our kiss with reproaches.
I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portal-- Ah, I no more am young, and you, child, you are immortal!
Mine is the glacier's way, yours is the blossom's weather-- When were December and May known to be happy together?
Before my kisses grow tame, before my moodiness grieve you, While yet my heart is flame, and I all lover, I leave you.
So, in the coming time, when you count the rich years over, Think of me in my prime, and not as a white-haired lover,
Fretful, pierced with regret, the wraith of a dead Desire Thrumming a cracked spinet by a slowly dying fire.
When, at last, I am cold-- years hence, if the gods so will it-- Say, "He was true as gold," and wear a rose in your fillet!
Others, tender as I, will come and sue for caresses, Woo you, win you, and die-- mind you, a rose in your tresses!
Some Melpomene woo, some hold Clio the nearest; You, sweet Comedy--you were ever sweetest and dearest!
Nay, it is time to go-- when writing your tragic sister Say to that child of woe how sorry I was I missed her.
Really, I cannot stay, though "parting is such sweet sorrow" . . . Perhaps I will, on my way down-town, look in to-morrow!
PALINODE
Who is Lydia, pray, and who Is Hypatia? Softly, dear, Let me breathe it in your ear-- They are you, and only you. And those other nameless two Walking in Arcadian air-- She that was so very fair? She that had the twilight
Graybeards, who seek to bridge the chasm 'Twixt man to-day and protoplasm, Who theorize and probe and gape, And finally evolve an ape-- Yours is a harmless sort of cult, If you are pleased with the result. Some folks admit, with cynic grace, That you have rather proved your case. These dogmatists are so severe! Enough for me that Fanny's here, Enough that, having long survived Pre-Eveic forms, she HAS arrived-- An illustration the completest Of the survival of the sweetest.
Linnaeus, avaunt! I only care To know what flower she wants to wear. I leave it to the addle-pated To guess how pinks originated, As if it mattered! The chief thing Is that we have them in the Spring, And Fanny likes them. When they come, I straightway send and purchase some. The Origin of Plants--go to! Their proper end _I_ have in view.
O loveliest book that ever man Looked into since the world began Is Woman! As I turn those pages, As fresh as in the primal ages, As day by day I scan, perplext, The ever subtly changing text, I feel that I am slowly growing To think no other work worth knowing. And in my copy--there is none So perfect as the one I own-- I find no thing set down but such As teaches me to love it much.
L'EAU DORMANTE
Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book. In vain he tries to win a look, And from the trellis over there Blows sundry kisses through the air, Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.
My lad, if you, without abuse, Will take advice from one who's wiser, And put his wisdom to more use Than ever yet did your adviser;
If you will let, as none will do, Another's heartbreak serve for two, You'll have a care, some four years hence, How you lounge there by yonder fence And blow those kisses through that screen-- For Lydia will be seventeen.
THALIA
A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS BROUGHT HIM HIS HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD HAIR FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK:
I say it under the rose-- oh, thanks!--yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; we are not going to quarrel.
We have too long been friends on foot and in gilded coaches, Now that the whole thing ends, to spoil our kiss with reproaches.
I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portal-- Ah, I no more am young, and you, child, you are immortal!
Mine is the glacier's way, yours is the blossom's weather-- When were December and May known to be happy together?
Before my kisses grow tame, before my moodiness grieve you, While yet my heart is flame, and I all lover, I leave you.
So, in the coming time, when you count the rich years over, Think of me in my prime, and not as a white-haired lover,
Fretful, pierced with regret, the wraith of a dead Desire Thrumming a cracked spinet by a slowly dying fire.
When, at last, I am cold-- years hence, if the gods so will it-- Say, "He was true as gold," and wear a rose in your fillet!
Others, tender as I, will come and sue for caresses, Woo you, win you, and die-- mind you, a rose in your tresses!
Some Melpomene woo, some hold Clio the nearest; You, sweet Comedy--you were ever sweetest and dearest!
Nay, it is time to go-- when writing your tragic sister Say to that child of woe how sorry I was I missed her.
Really, I cannot stay, though "parting is such sweet sorrow" . . . Perhaps I will, on my way down-town, look in to-morrow!
PALINODE
Who is Lydia, pray, and who Is Hypatia? Softly, dear, Let me breathe it in your ear-- They are you, and only you. And those other nameless two Walking in Arcadian air-- She that was so very fair? She that had the twilight