Part 1 (2/2)

I knew you as I knew these happy things, Pa.s.sing, unwept, on wide and tranquil wings To their own place in nature; below, above Transient pa.s.sion with its stains and stings.

For this strange pity that you knew not of Was neither l.u.s.t nor love.

Do not repent, nor pity, nor regret.

I do not seek your pardon, nor give you mine.

Pa.s.s by, be silent, drop no tears, forget.

Return not, make no sign When I am dead, nor turn your lips away From Phryne's silver limbs and Faustine's kiss.

I need no pity. No word of pity say.

I have given a new sweet name and crown to this That served men's l.u.s.t and was Aspasia.

A SONG FOR OLD LOVE.

There shall be a song for both of us that day Though fools say you have long outlived your songs, And when, perhaps, because your hair is grey, You go unsung, to whom all praise belongs, And no men kiss your hands--your fragile hands Folded like empty sh.e.l.ls on sea-spurned sands.

And you that were dawn whereat men shouted once Are sunset now, with but one wors.h.i.+pper, Then to your twilight heart this song shall be Sweeter than those that did your youth announce For your brave beautiful spirit is lovelier Than once your lovely body was to me.

Your folded hands and your shut eyelids stir A pa.s.sion that Time has crowned with sanct.i.ty.

Young fools shall wonder why, your youth being over, You are so sung still, but your heart will know That he who loved your soul was your true lover And the last song alone was worthy you.

SIC TRANSIT--

”What did she leave?” ...

Only these hungry miser-words, poor heart!

Not ”Did she love?” ”Did she suffer?” ”Was she sad From this green, bright and tossing world to part?”

No word of ”Do they miss her? do they grieve?”

Only this wolf-thought for the gold she had...

”What did she leave?”

MRS. EFFINGHAM'S SWAN SONG.

I am growing old: I have kept youth too long, But I dare not let them know it now.

I have done the heart of youth a grievous wrong, Danced it to dust and drugged it with the rose, Forced its reluctant lips to one more vow.

I have denied the lawful grey, So kind, so wise, to settle in my hair; I belong no more to April, but September has not taught me her repose.

I wish I had let myself grow old in the quiet way That is so gracious.... I wish I did not care.

My faded mouth will never flower again, Under the paint the wrinkles fret my eyes, My hair is dull beneath its henna stain, I have come to the last ramparts of disguise.

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