Part 18 (1/2)

THE PLAY

In the rosy light of my day's fair morning, Ere ever a storm cloud darkened the west, Ere even a shadow of night gave warning When life seemed only a pleasure quest, Why then all humour and comedy scorning-- I liked high tragedy best.

I liked the challenge, the fierce fought duel, With a death or a parting in every act.

I liked the villain to be more cruel Than the basest villain could be in fact: For it fed the fires of my mind with the fuel Of the things that my life lacked.

But as time pa.s.sed on, and I met real sorrow, And she played at night on the stage--my heart, I found I could not forget on the morrow The pain I had felt in her tragic part.

For alas! no longer I needed to borrow My grief from the actor's art.

And as life grows older, and therefore sadder (Though sweeter maybe with its autumn haze), I find more pleasure in watching the gladder And lighter order of humorous plays.

Where the mirth is as mad, or maybe madder, Than the mirth of my lost days.

I like to be forced to laugh and be merry, Though the earth with sorrow and pain is rife: I like for an evening at least to bury All thoughts of trouble, or pain, or strife.

In sooth, I like to be moved to the very Emotions I miss in life.

AS WE LOOK BACK (RONDEAU)

As we look back at our lost Used-to-Be, 'The light that never was on land or sea'

Touches the distant mountain peaks with gold, And through the gla.s.s of memory we behold Such blossoms as grow not on any lea.

The double leaf upon the poplar tree Turns up its silver side to you and me, And glow-worm lanterns light the lonely wold As we look back.

No sounds we hear but echoes of young glee; No winds we feel but west winds blowing free, From those fair isles that seem a thousandfold More beautiful than in the days of old; And all the clouds that hang above them flee, As we look back.

WHY

Why do eyes that were tender, Averted, turn away?

Why has our dear love's splendour All faded into gray?

Why is it that lips glow not That late were all aglow?

I know not, dear, I know not, I only know 'tis so.

Why do you no more tremble Now when I kiss your cheek?

Why do we both dissemble The thoughts we used to speak?

Why is it that words flow not That used to fondly flow?

I know not, dear, I know not, I only know 'tis so.

Have we outlived the pa.s.sion That late lit earth and sky?

And is this but the fas.h.i.+on A fond love takes to die?