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WHICH WILL SURVIVE?
The lady on the silk divan,
Save when she flirted with her fan
Or smooth'd her moigir's gauzy fold,
Or on her zither chanced to play,
By the casement's curtain'd and latticed pane
That look'd o'er her master's wide domain,
A captive, though caged in a caged of gold,
Loll'd idly through the livelong day.
Save when she flirted with her fan
Or smooth'd her moigir's gauzy fold,
Or on her zither chanced to play,
By the casement's curtain'd and latticed pane
That look'd o'er her master's wide domain,
A captive, though caged in a caged of gold,
Loll'd idly through the livelong day.
And all around the imprint bore
Of luxury, and nothing more
But childish taste for painted toys,
With famish'd soul and pamper'd sense,
Yet a soul that knew not its need of food,
And sense that languish'd from lassitude,
And childishness cheated of childish joys
And robbed of its childish innocence.
Of luxury, and nothing more
But childish taste for painted toys,
With famish'd soul and pamper'd sense,
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And sense that languish'd from lassitude,
And childishness cheated of childish joys
And robbed of its childish innocence.
But yet another 'prison'd thing,
A seamew with a broken wing,
Broken and clipp'd to keep from flight,
Seen through the arch of the open door,
In a spray of the oleander's shade
Outspread on the courtyard pavement, made
A brighter dapple of living light
Where all was white, on the marble floor.
A seamew with a broken wing,
Broken and clipp'd to keep from flight,
Seen through the arch of the open door,
In a spray of the oleander's shade
Outspread on the courtyard pavement, made
A brighter dapple of living light
Where all was white, on the marble floor.
The lady's slaves, in rich array,
Who fed the seagull day by day,
Of any creature held in thrall
Had never seen, so they averred,
A thing so patient and so resigned,
That never either yearn'd or pined
For past or future, and yet, withal,
So sorrowful and sad a bird.
Who fed the seagull day by day,
Of any creature held in thrall
Had never seen, so they averred,
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That never either yearn'd or pined
For past or future, and yet, withal,
So sorrowful and sad a bird.
But when the one who ruled his fate
In foolish fashion would dilate
On perils of the world outside,
And pity those that strove and press'd
(E'en she, who never had known, forsooth!
The snares of a defenceless youth,
Or set herself bravely to stem some tide
That might have needed a will to breast!),
In foolish fashion would dilate
On perils of the world outside,
And pity those that strove and press'd
(E'en she, who never had known, forsooth!
The snares of a defenceless youth,
Or set herself bravely to stem some tide
That might have needed a will to breast!),
Then would the bird whose wings were clipp'd
Look at the lady as she sipp'd
Her coffee from the gilded cup
(Sipp'd it, and found it sweet and good),
Propelling from each keen black eye,
That once had look'd on Liberty,
Enough of scorn to have withered up
The soul that could only have understood!
Look at the lady as she sipp'd
Her coffee from the gilded cup
(Sipp'd it, and found it sweet and good),
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That once had look'd on Liberty,
Enough of scorn to have withered up
The soul that could only have understood!
As though he knew that lady bright,
Half mistress and half parasite,
Amidst the press of new-born things,
Must die the death and share the fate
Reserved for those who earn no place
Or part in Time's relentless race,
The butterflies whose painted wings
Outspread in the autumn, all too late,
Half mistress and half parasite,
Amidst the press of new-born things,
Must die the death and share the fate
Reserved for those who earn no place
Or part in Time's relentless race,
The butterflies whose painted wings
Outspread in the autumn, all too late,
And thus would come to be, ere long,
A thing of legend and of song,
To healthy human minds no more,
Once her appointed race was run,
Than the fairies who sat upon mushroom thrones
Or the mermaids who fed upon dead men's bones,
The play'd-out puppets of mythic lore
Whose days, by the light of our days, are done.
A thing of legend and of song,
To healthy human minds no more,
Once her appointed race was run,
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Or the mermaids who fed upon dead men's bones,
The play'd-out puppets of mythic lore
Whose days, by the light of our days, are done.
Whilst his own brood, strong, fresh, and fair,
On wide spread wing would cleave the air
And dip and dive o'er the ocean wave,
And whirl and eddy before the wind,—
For all that their sire, a weary while,
Once spent his days in durance vile,
The slave of one, herself a slave,
Whose passing will leave no trace behind!
On wide spread wing would cleave the air
And dip and dive o'er the ocean wave,
And whirl and eddy before the wind,—
For all that their sire, a weary while,
Once spent his days in durance vile,
The slave of one, herself a slave,
Whose passing will leave no trace behind!
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