 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
123
BAGATELLE
CORYDON
A PASTORAL
Scene: A roadside in ArcadySHEPHERD
Good sir, have you seen pass this way
A mischief straight from market-day?
You'd know her at a glance, I think;
Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;
She has a way of looking back
Over her shoulder, and, alack!
Who gets that look one time, good sir,
Has naught to do but follow her.
PILGRIM
I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Though she that passed had lips like pinks.
SHEPHERD
Or like two strawberries made one
By some sly trick of dew and sun.
124
A poet!
SHEPHERD
Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flock on yonder plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.
But she that passed—you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwell herein in Arcady?
PILGRIM
Her skin was as the satin bark
Of birches.
SHEPHERD
Light or dark?
PILGRIM
Quite dark.
SHEPHERD
Then 't was not she.
PILGRIM
The peach's side
That gets the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
125
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a sombre mist.
SHEPHERD
No, that is not the maid I seek.
Her hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassels of the corn.
And yet—brown locks are far from bad.
PILGRIM
Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the willow-tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;
Her hand—in sooth I lack for words—
Her hand, five slender snow-white birds;
Her voice—though she but said “Godspeed”—
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And then her eye—my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
126
And lashes to the heart's desire—
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.
SHEPHERD,
thoughtfully
Good sir, which way did this one go?
[OMITTED]
PILGRIM,
solus
So, he is off! The silly youth
Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.
He loves—thus lads at first are blind—
No woman, only Womankind.
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA
Beneath the warrior's helm, behold
The flowing tresses of the woman!
Minerva, Pallas, what you will—
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
The flowing tresses of the woman!
Minerva, Pallas, what you will—
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
Minerva? No! 't is some sly minx
In cousin's helmet masquerading;
If not—then Wisdom was a dame
For sonnets and for serenading!
In cousin's helmet masquerading;
If not—then Wisdom was a dame
For sonnets and for serenading!
127
I thought the goddess cold, austere,
Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
Did Pallas wear her hair like that?
Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?
Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
Did Pallas wear her hair like that?
Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?
The Nightingale should be her bird,
And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn:
How very fresh she looks, and yet
She's older far than Trajan's Column!
And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn:
How very fresh she looks, and yet
She's older far than Trajan's Column!
The magic hand that carved this face,
And set this vine-work round it running,
Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought
Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.
And set this vine-work round it running,
Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought
Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.
Who was he? Was he glad or sad,
Who knew to carve in such a fashion?
Perchance he graved the dainty head
For some brown girl that scorned his passion.
Who knew to carve in such a fashion?
Perchance he graved the dainty head
For some brown girl that scorned his passion.
Perchance, in some still garden-place,
Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
He flung the jewel at the feet
Of Phryne, or perhaps 't was Laïs.
Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
He flung the jewel at the feet
Of Phryne, or perhaps 't was Laïs.
But he is dust; we may not know
His happy or unhappy story:
Nameless, and dead these centuries,
His work outlives him—there 's his glory!
His happy or unhappy story:
Nameless, and dead these centuries,
His work outlives him—there 's his glory!
128
Both man and jewel lay in earth
Beneath a lava-buried city;
The countless summers came and went
With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.
Beneath a lava-buried city;
The countless summers came and went
With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.
Years blotted out the man, but left
The jewel fresh as any blossom,
Till some Visconti dug it up—
To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!
The jewel fresh as any blossom,
Till some Visconti dug it up—
To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!
O nameless brother! see how Time
Your gracious handiwork has guarded:
See how your loving, patient art
Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
Your gracious handiwork has guarded:
See how your loving, patient art
Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
Who would not suffer slights of men,
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone
On such a bosom rise and fall so!
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone
On such a bosom rise and fall so!
THE MENU
I beg you come to-night and dine.A welcome waits you, and sound wine—
The Roederer chilly to a charm,
As Juno's breath the claret warm,
The sherry of an ancient brand.
129
A soup, a fish, two meats, and then
A salad fit for aldermen
(When aldermen, alas the days!
Were really worth their mayonnaise);
A dish of grapes whose clusters won
Their bronze in Carolinian sun;
Next, cheese—for you the Neufchâtel,
A bit of Cheshire likes me well;
Café au lait or coffee black,
With Kirsch or Kümmel or Cognac
(The German band in Irving Place
By this time purple in the face);
Cigars and pipes. These being through,
Friends shall drop in, a very few—
Shakespeare and Milton, and no more.
When these are guests I bolt the door,
With Not at Home to any one
Excepting Alfred Tennyson.
COMEDY
They parted, with clasps of hand,
And kisses, and burning tears.
They met, in a foreign land,
After some twenty years:
And kisses, and burning tears.
They met, in a foreign land,
After some twenty years:
130
Met as acquaintances meet,
Smilingly, tranquil-eyed—
Not even the least little beat
Of the heart, upon either side!
Smilingly, tranquil-eyed—
Not even the least little beat
Of the heart, upon either side!
They chatted of this and that,
The nothings that make up life;
She in a Gainsborough hat,
And he in black for his wife.
The nothings that make up life;
She in a Gainsborough hat,
And he in black for his wife.
IN AN ATELIER
I pray you, do not turn your head;
And let your hands lie folded, so.
It was a dress like this, wine-red,
That troubled Dante, long ago.
You don't know Dante? Never mind.
He loved a lady wondrous fair—
His model? Something of the kind.
I wonder if she had your hair!
And let your hands lie folded, so.
It was a dress like this, wine-red,
That troubled Dante, long ago.
You don't know Dante? Never mind.
He loved a lady wondrous fair—
His model? Something of the kind.
I wonder if she had your hair!
I wonder if she looked so meek,
And was not meek at all (my dear,
I want that side light on your cheek).
He loved her, it is very clear,
And painted her, as I paint you,
But rather better, on the whole
(Depress your chin; yes, that will do):
He was a painter of the soul!
And was not meek at all (my dear,
I want that side light on your cheek).
He loved her, it is very clear,
And painted her, as I paint you,
But rather better, on the whole
131
He was a painter of the soul!
(And painted portraits, too, I think,
In the Inferno—devilish good!
I'd make some certain critics blink
Had I his method and his mood.)
Her name was (Fanny, let your glance
Rest there, by that majolica tray)—
Was Beatrice; they met by chance—
They met by chance, the usual way.
In the Inferno—devilish good!
I'd make some certain critics blink
Had I his method and his mood.)
Her name was (Fanny, let your glance
Rest there, by that majolica tray)—
Was Beatrice; they met by chance—
They met by chance, the usual way.
(As you and I met, months ago,
Do you remember? How your feet
Went crinkle-crinkle on the snow
Along the bleak gas-lighted street!
An instant in the drug-store's glare
You stood as in a golden frame,
And then I swore it, then and there,
To hand your sweetness down to fame.)
Do you remember? How your feet
Went crinkle-crinkle on the snow
Along the bleak gas-lighted street!
An instant in the drug-store's glare
You stood as in a golden frame,
And then I swore it, then and there,
To hand your sweetness down to fame.)
They met, and loved, and never wed
(All this was long before our time),
And though they died, they are not dead—
Such endless youth gives mortal rhyme!
Still walks the earth, with haughty mien,
Pale Dante, in his soul's distress;
And still the lovely Florentine
Goes lovely in her wine-red dress.
(All this was long before our time),
And though they died, they are not dead—
Such endless youth gives mortal rhyme!
Still walks the earth, with haughty mien,
Pale Dante, in his soul's distress;
And still the lovely Florentine
Goes lovely in her wine-red dress.
132
You do not understand at all?
He was a poet; on his page
He drew her; and, though kingdoms fall,
This lady lives from age to age.
A poet—that means painter too,
For words are colors, rightly laid;
And they outlast our brightest hue,
For varnish cracks and crimsons fade.
He was a poet; on his page
He drew her; and, though kingdoms fall,
This lady lives from age to age.
A poet—that means painter too,
For words are colors, rightly laid;
And they outlast our brightest hue,
For varnish cracks and crimsons fade.
The poets—they are lucky ones!
When we are thrust upon the shelves,
Our works turn into skeletons
Almost as quickly as ourselves;
For our poor canvas peels at length,
At length is prized—when all is bare:
“What grace!” the critics cry, “what strength!”
When neither strength nor grace is there.
When we are thrust upon the shelves,
Our works turn into skeletons
Almost as quickly as ourselves;
For our poor canvas peels at length,
At length is prized—when all is bare:
“What grace!” the critics cry, “what strength!”
When neither strength nor grace is there.
Ah, Fanny, I am sick at heart,
It is so little one can do;
We talk our jargon—live for Art!
I'd much prefer to live for you.
How dull and lifeless colors are!
You smile, and all my picture lies:
I wish that I could crush a star
To make a pigment for your eyes.
It is so little one can do;
We talk our jargon—live for Art!
I'd much prefer to live for you.
How dull and lifeless colors are!
You smile, and all my picture lies:
I wish that I could crush a star
To make a pigment for your eyes.
Yes, child, I know, I'm out of tune;
The light is bad; the sky is gray:
I paint no more this afternoon,
So lay your royal gear away.
Besides, you 're moody—chin on hand—
I know not what—not in the vein—
Not like Anne Bullen, sweet and bland:
You sit there smiling in disdain.
The light is bad; the sky is gray:
133
So lay your royal gear away.
Besides, you 're moody—chin on hand—
I know not what—not in the vein—
Not like Anne Bullen, sweet and bland:
You sit there smiling in disdain.
Not like the Tudor's radiant Queen,
Unconscious of the coming woe,
But rather as she might have been,
Preparing for the headsman's blow.
So, I have put you in a miff—
Sitting bolt-upright, wrist on wrist.
How should you look? Why, dear, as if—
Somehow—as if you 'd just been kissed!
Unconscious of the coming woe,
But rather as she might have been,
Preparing for the headsman's blow.
So, I have put you in a miff—
Sitting bolt-upright, wrist on wrist.
How should you look? Why, dear, as if—
Somehow—as if you 'd just been kissed!
AT A READING
The spare Professor, grave and bald,Began his paper. It was called,
I think, “A brief Historic Glance
At Russia, Germany, and France.”
A glance, but to my best belief
'T was almost anything but brief—
A wide survey, in which the earth
Was seen before mankind had birth;
134
Behemoth, armored glyptodon,
And in the dawn's unpractised ray
The transient dodo winged its way;
Then, by degrees, through silt and slough,
We reached Berlin—I don't know how.
The good Professor's monotone
Had turned me into senseless stone
Instanter, but that near me sat
Hypatia in her new spring hat,
Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom
Lighted the heavy-curtained room.
Hypatia—ah, what lovely things
Are fashioned out of eighteen springs!
At first, in sums of this amount,
The blighting winters do not count.
Just as my eyes were growing dim
With heaviness, I saw that slim,
Erect, elastic figure there,
Like a pond-lily taking air.
She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat,
So altogether crisp and sweet,
I quite forgot what Bismarck said,
And why the Emperor shook his head,
And how it was Von Moltke's frown
Cost France another frontier town.
The only facts I took away
From the Professor's theme that day
135
Such as the antique sculptures show;
A chin to Greek perfection true;
Eyes of Astarte's tender blue;
A high complexion without fleck
Or flaw, and curls about her neck.
AMONTILLADO
(In a rhythm of Mr. Thackeray)
Rafters black with smoke,
White with sand the floor is,
Twenty whiskered Dons
Calling to Dolores—
Tawny flower of Spain,
Wild rose of Granada,
Keeper of the wines
In this old posada.
White with sand the floor is,
Twenty whiskered Dons
Calling to Dolores—
Tawny flower of Spain,
Wild rose of Granada,
Keeper of the wines
In this old posada.
Hither, light-of-foot,
Dolores—Juno—Circe!
Pretty Spanish girl
Without a grain of mercy!
Here I'm travel-worn,
Sad, and thirsty very,
And she does not fetch
The Amontillado sherry!
Dolores—Juno—Circe!
Pretty Spanish girl
Without a grain of mercy!
Here I'm travel-worn,
Sad, and thirsty very,
136
The Amontillado sherry!
Thank you, breath of June!
Now my heart beats free; ah,
Kisses for your hand,
Mariquita mia.
You shall live in song,
Warm and ripe and cheery,
Mellowing with years
Like Amontillado sherry.
Now my heart beats free; ah,
Kisses for your hand,
Mariquita mia.
You shall live in song,
Warm and ripe and cheery,
Mellowing with years
Like Amontillado sherry.
While the earth spins round
And the stars lean over,
May this amber sprite
Never lack a lover.
Blessèd be the man
Who lured her from the berry,
And blest the girl that brings
The Amontillado sherry!
And the stars lean over,
May this amber sprite
Never lack a lover.
Blessèd be the man
Who lured her from the berry,
And blest the girl that brings
The Amontillado sherry!
Sorrow, get thee hence!
Care, be gone, blue dragon!
Only shapes of joy
Are sculptured on the flagon.
Kisses—repartees—
Lyrics—all that's merry
Rise to touch the lip
In Amontillado sherry.
Care, be gone, blue dragon!
Only shapes of joy
Are sculptured on the flagon.
Kisses—repartees—
Lyrics—all that's merry
Rise to touch the lip
In Amontillado sherry.
137
Here be wit and mirth,
And love, the arch enchanter;
Here the golden blood
Of saints in this decanter.
When pale Charon comes
To row me o'er his ferry,
I'll fee him with a case
Of Amontillado sherry!
And love, the arch enchanter;
Here the golden blood
Of saints in this decanter.
When pale Charon comes
To row me o'er his ferry,
I'll fee him with a case
Of Amontillado sherry!
What! the flagon's dry?
Hark, old Time's confession—
Both hands crossed at XII,
Owning his transgression!
Pray, old monk, for all
Generous souls and merry;
May they have their share
Of Amontillado sherry!
Hark, old Time's confession—
Both hands crossed at XII,
Owning his transgression!
Pray, old monk, for all
Generous souls and merry;
May they have their share
Of Amontillado sherry!
CARPE DIEM
By studying my lady's eyes
I've grown so learnèd day by day,
So Machiavelian in this wise,
That when I send her flowers, I say
I've grown so learnèd day by day,
So Machiavelian in this wise,
That when I send her flowers, I say
To each small flower (no matter what,
Geranium, pink, or tuberose,
Syringa, or forget-me-not,
Or violet) before it goes:
Geranium, pink, or tuberose,
138
Or violet) before it goes:
“Be not triumphant, little flower,
When on her haughty heart you lie,
But modestly enjoy your hour:
She'll weary of you by and by.”
When on her haughty heart you lie,
But modestly enjoy your hour:
She'll weary of you by and by.”
DANS LA BOHÈME
The leafless branches snap with cold;
The night is still, the winds are laid;
And you are sitting, as of old,
Beside my hearth-stone, heavenly maid!
What would have chanced me all these years,
As boy and man, had you not come
And brought me gifts of smiles and tears
From your Olympian home?
The night is still, the winds are laid;
And you are sitting, as of old,
Beside my hearth-stone, heavenly maid!
What would have chanced me all these years,
As boy and man, had you not come
And brought me gifts of smiles and tears
From your Olympian home?
Dear Muse, 't is twenty years or more
Since that enchanted, fairy time
When you came tapping at my door,
Your reticule stuffed full of rhyme.
What strange things have befallen, indeed,
Since then! Who has the time to say
What bards have flowered (and gone to seed)—
Immortal for a day!
Since that enchanted, fairy time
When you came tapping at my door,
Your reticule stuffed full of rhyme.
What strange things have befallen, indeed,
Since then! Who has the time to say
What bards have flowered (and gone to seed)—
Immortal for a day!
139
We've seen Pretence with cross and crown,
And Folly caught in self-spun toils;
Merit content to pass unknown,
And Honor scorning public spoils—
Seen Bottom wield the critic's pen
While Ariel sang in sunlit cloud:
Sometimes we wept, and now and then
We could but laugh aloud.
And Folly caught in self-spun toils;
Merit content to pass unknown,
And Honor scorning public spoils—
Seen Bottom wield the critic's pen
While Ariel sang in sunlit cloud:
Sometimes we wept, and now and then
We could but laugh aloud.
With pilgrim staff and sandal-shoon,
One time we sought the Old-World shrines:
Saw Venice lying in the moon,
The Jungfrau and the Apennines;
Beheld the Tiber rolling dark,
Rent temples, fanes, and gods austere;
In English meadows heard the lark
That charmed her Shakespeare's ear.
One time we sought the Old-World shrines:
Saw Venice lying in the moon,
The Jungfrau and the Apennines;
Beheld the Tiber rolling dark,
Rent temples, fanes, and gods austere;
In English meadows heard the lark
That charmed her Shakespeare's ear.
What dreams and visions we have had,
What tempests we have weathered through!
Been rich and poor, and gay and sad,
But never hopeless—thanks to you.
A draught of water from the brook,
Or alt hochheimer—it was one;
Whatever fortune fell we took,
Children of shade and sun.
What tempests we have weathered through!
Been rich and poor, and gay and sad,
But never hopeless—thanks to you.
A draught of water from the brook,
Or alt hochheimer—it was one;
Whatever fortune fell we took,
Children of shade and sun.
Though lacking gold, we never stooped
To pick it up in all our days;
Though lacking praise we sometimes drooped,
We never asked a soul for praise.
The exquisite reward of song
Was song—the self-same thrill and glow
That to unfolding flowers belong
And woodland thrushes know!
To pick it up in all our days;
140
We never asked a soul for praise.
The exquisite reward of song
Was song—the self-same thrill and glow
That to unfolding flowers belong
And woodland thrushes know!
What gilt-winged hopes have taken flight,
And dropped, like Icarus, in mid-sky!
What cloudy days have turned to bright!
What fateful years have glided by!
What lips we loved vain memory seeks!
What hands are cold that once pressed ours!
What lashes rest upon the cheeks
Beneath the snows and flowers!
And dropped, like Icarus, in mid-sky!
What cloudy days have turned to bright!
What fateful years have glided by!
What lips we loved vain memory seeks!
What hands are cold that once pressed ours!
What lashes rest upon the cheeks
Beneath the snows and flowers!
We would not wish them back again;
The way is rude from here to there:
For us, the short-lived joy and pain,
For them, the endless rest from care,
The crown, the palm, the deathless youth:
We would not wish them back—ah, no!
And as for us, dear Muse, in truth,
We've but half way to go.
The way is rude from here to there:
For us, the short-lived joy and pain,
For them, the endless rest from care,
The crown, the palm, the deathless youth:
We would not wish them back—ah, no!
And as for us, dear Muse, in truth,
We've but half way to go.
141
THE LUNCH
A gothic window, where a damask curtainMade the blank daylight shadowy and uncertain;
A slab of rosewood on four eagle-talons
Held trimly up and neatly taught to balance;
A porcelain dish, o'er which in many a cluster
Black grapes hung down, dead-ripe and without lustre;
A melon cut in thin, delicious slices;
A cake that seemed mosaic-work in spices;
Two China cups with golden tulips sunny,
And rich inside with chocolate like honey;
And she and I the banquet-scene completing
With dreamy words, and fingers shyly meeting.
IMP OF DREAMS
I
Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep,To her snowy chamber creep,
And straight whisper in her ear
What, awake, she will not hear—
Imp of Dreams, when she's asleep.
142
II
Tell her, so she may repent,That no rose withholds its scent,
That no bird that has a song
Hoards the music summer-long—
Tell her, so she may repent.
III
Tell her there's naught else to do,If to-morrow's skies be blue,
But to come, with civil speech,
And walk with me to Hampton Beach—
Tell her there's naught else to do!
Tell her, so she may repent—
Imp of Dreams, when she 's asleep!
AN ELECTIVE COURSE
LINES FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF A HARVARD UNDERGRADUATE
The bloom that lies on Hilda's cheek
Is all my Latin, all my Greek;
The only sciences I know
Are frowns that gloom and smiles that glow;
Siberia and Italy
Lie in her sweet geography;
No scholarship have I but such
As teaches me to love her much.
Is all my Latin, all my Greek;
The only sciences I know
Are frowns that gloom and smiles that glow;
143
Lie in her sweet geography;
No scholarship have I but such
As teaches me to love her much.
Why should I strive to read the skies,
Who know the midnight of her eyes?
Why should I go so very far
To learn what heavenly bodies are?
Not Berenice's starry hair
With Hilda's tresses can compare;
Not Venus on a cloudless night,
Enslaving Science with her light,
Ever reveals so much as when
She stares and droops her lids again.
Who know the midnight of her eyes?
Why should I go so very far
To learn what heavenly bodies are?
Not Berenice's starry hair
With Hilda's tresses can compare;
Not Venus on a cloudless night,
Enslaving Science with her light,
Ever reveals so much as when
She stares and droops her lids again.
If Nature's secrets are forbidden
To mortals, she may keep them hidden.
Æons and æons we progressed
And did not let that break our rest;
Little we cared if Mars o'erhead
Were or were not inhabited;
Without the aid of Saturn's rings
Fair girls were wived in those far springs;
Warm lips met ours and conquered us
Or ere thou wert, Copernicus!
To mortals, she may keep them hidden.
Æons and æons we progressed
And did not let that break our rest;
Little we cared if Mars o'erhead
Were or were not inhabited;
Without the aid of Saturn's rings
Fair girls were wived in those far springs;
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 Hilda 's here,
Enough that, having long survived
Pre-Eveic forms, she has arrived—
An illustration the completest
Of the survival of the sweetest.
'Twixt man to-day and protoplasm,
144
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 Hilda 's here,
Enough that, having long survived
Pre-Eveic forms, she has arrived—
An illustration the completest
Of the survival of the sweetest.
Linnæus, 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 Hilda likes them. When they come,
I straightway send and purchase some.
The Origin of Plants—go to!
Their proper end I have in view.
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 Hilda likes them. When they come,
I straightway send and purchase some.
The Origin of Plants—go to!
Their proper end I have in view.
The 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, perplexed,
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.
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, perplexed,
145
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.
PEPITA
Scarcely sixteen years old
Is Pepita. (You understand,
A breath of this sunny land
Turns green fruit into gold:
Is Pepita. (You understand,
A breath of this sunny land
Turns green fruit into gold:
A maiden's conscious blood
In the cheek of girlhood glows;
A bud slips into a rose
Before it is quite a bud.)
In the cheek of girlhood glows;
A bud slips into a rose
Before it is quite a bud.)
And I in Seville—sedate,
An American, with an eye
For that strip of indigo sky
Half-glimpsed through a Moorish gate—
An American, with an eye
For that strip of indigo sky
Half-glimpsed through a Moorish gate—
146
I see her, sitting up there,
With tortoise-shell comb and fan;
Red-lipped, but a trifle wan,
Because of her coal-black hair;
With tortoise-shell comb and fan;
Red-lipped, but a trifle wan,
Because of her coal-black hair;
And the hair a trifle dull,
Because of the eyes beneath,
And the radiance of her teeth
When her smile is at its full!
Because of the eyes beneath,
And the radiance of her teeth
When her smile is at its full!
Against the balcony rail
She leans, and looks on the street;
Her lashes, long and discreet
Shading her eyes like a veil.
She leans, and looks on the street;
Her lashes, long and discreet
Shading her eyes like a veil.
Held by a silver dart,
The mantilla's delicate lace
Falls each side of her face
And crosswise over her heart.
The mantilla's delicate lace
Falls each side of her face
And crosswise over her heart.
This is Pepita—this
Her hour for taking her ease:
A lover under the trees
In the calle were not amiss!
Her hour for taking her ease:
A lover under the trees
In the calle were not amiss!
Well, I must needs pass by,
With a furtive glance, be it said,
At the dusk Murillo head
And the Andalusian eye.
With a furtive glance, be it said,
At the dusk Murillo head
And the Andalusian eye.
147
In the Plaza I hear the sounds
Of guitar and castanet;
Although it is early yet,
The dancers are on their rounds.
Of guitar and castanet;
Although it is early yet,
The dancers are on their rounds.
Softly the sunlight falls
On the slim Giralda tower,
That now peals forth the hour
O'er broken ramparts and walls.
On the slim Giralda tower,
That now peals forth the hour
O'er broken ramparts and walls.
Ah, what glory and gloom
In this Arab-Spanish town!
What masonry, golden-brown,
And hung with tendril and bloom!
In this Arab-Spanish town!
What masonry, golden-brown,
And hung with tendril and bloom!
Place of forgotten kings!—
With fountains that never play,
And gardens where day by day
The lonely cicada sings.
With fountains that never play,
And gardens where day by day
The lonely cicada sings.
Traces are everywhere
Of the dusky race that came,
And passed, like a sudden flame,
Leaving their sighs in the air!
Of the dusky race that came,
And passed, like a sudden flame,
Leaving their sighs in the air!
Taken with things like these,
Pepita fades out of my mind:
Pleasure enough I find
In Moorish column and frieze.
Pepita fades out of my mind:
Pleasure enough I find
In Moorish column and frieze.
148
And yet I have my fears,
If this had been long ago,
I might ... well, I do not know
She with her sixteen years!
If this had been long ago,
I might ... well, I do not know
She with her sixteen years!
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.
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.
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,
149
And blow those kisses through that screen—
For Lydia will be seventeen.
ECHO SONG
Who can say where Echo dwells?
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
Phantom of the crystal Air,
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair—
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair—
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo
Echo, lift thy drowsy head,
And repeat each charmèd word
Thou must needs have overheard
Yestere'en, ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled—
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
And repeat each charmèd word
150
Yestere'en, ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled—
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
Breathe the vows she since denies!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now—
Thou didst hear her perjuries.
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now—
Thou didst hear her perjuries.
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
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.
oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel,
We part lovers, not foes;
we are not going to quarrel.
151
We have too long been friends
on foot and in gilded coaches,
Now that the whole thing ends,
to spoil our kiss with reproaches.
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!
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?
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.
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,
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.
the wraith of a dead Desire
Thrumming a cracked spinet
by a slowly dying fire.
152
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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
though “parting is such sweet sorrow” ...
Perhaps I will, on my way
down-town, look in to-morrow!
153
PALINODE
Who is Lydia, pray, and whoIs 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 hair?—
They were you, dear, only you.
If I speak of night or day,
Grace of fern or bloom of grape,
Hanging cloud or fountain spray,
Gem or star or glistening dew,
Or of mythologic shape,
Psyche, Pyrrha, Daphne, say—
I mean you, dear, you, just you.
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |