There's nothing in the saints and sages To meet the shafts her glances had, Or such as hers have had for ages To blind a man till he be glad, And humble him till he be mad.
The story would have many pages, And would be neither good nor bad.
And, having followed, you would find him Where properly the play begins;But look for no red light behind him --No fumes of many-colored sins, Fanned high by screaming violins.
God knows what good it was to blind him, Or whether man or woman wins.
And by the same eternal token, Who knows just how it will all end? --This drama of hard words unspoken, This fireside farce, without a friend Or enemy to comprehend What augurs when two lives are broken, And fear finds nothing left to mend.
He stares in vain for what awaits him, And sees in Love a coin to toss;He smiles, and her cold hush berates him Beneath his hard half of the cross;They wonder why it ever was;And she, the unforgiving, hates him More for her lack than for her loss.
He feeds with pride his indecision, And shrinks from what will not occur, Bequeathing with infirm derision His ashes to the days that were, Before she made him prisoner;And labors to retrieve the vision That he must once have had of her.
He waits, and there awaits an ending, And he knows neither what nor when;But no magicians are attending To make him see as he saw then, And he will never find again The face that once had been the rending Of all his purpose among men.
He blames her not, nor does he chide her, And she has nothing new to say;If he were Bluebeard he could hide her, But that's not written in the play, And there will be no change to-day;Although, to the serene outsider, There still would seem to be a way.
TheophilusBy what serene malevolence of names Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus?
Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games Would have you long, -- and you are one of us.
Told of your deeds I shudder for your dreams, And they, no doubt, are few and innocent.
Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, Heredity outshines environment.
What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, Survives and amplifies itself in you?
What manner of devilry has ever been That your obliquity may never do?
Humility befits a father's eyes, But not a friend of us would have him weep.
Admiring everything that lives and dies, Theophilus, we like you best asleep.
Sleep -- sleep; and let us find another man To lend another name less hazardous:
Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, Or Cain, -- but surely not Theophilus.
Veteran SirensThe ghost of Ninon would be sorry now To laugh at them, were she to see them here, So brave and so alert for learning how To fence with reason for another year.
Age offers a far comelier diadem Than theirs; but anguish has no eye for grace, When time's malicious mercy cautions them To think a while of number and of space.
The burning hope, the worn expectancy, The martyred humor, and the maimed allure, Cry out for time to end his levity, And age to soften its investiture;But they, though others fade and are still fair, Defy their fairness and are unsubdued;Although they suffer, they may not forswear The patient ardor of the unpursued.
Poor flesh, to fight the calendar so long;Poor vanity, so quaint and yet so brave;
Poor folly, so deceived and yet so strong, So far from Ninon and so near the grave.
Siege PerilousLong warned of many terrors more severe To scorch him than hell's engines could awaken, He scanned again, too far to be so near, The fearful seat no man had ever taken.
So many other men with older eyes Than his to see with older sight behind them Had known so long their one way to be wise, --Was any other thing to do than mind them?
So many a blasting parallel had seared Confusion on his faith, -- could he but wonder If he were mad and right, or if he feared God's fury told in shafted flame and thunder?
There fell one day upon his eyes a light Ethereal, and he heard no more men speaking;He saw their shaken heads, but no long sight Was his but for the end that he went seeking.
The end he sought was not the end; the crown He won shall unto many still be given.
Moreover, there was reason here to frown:
No fury thundered, no flame fell from heaven.
Another Dark LadyThink not, because I wonder where you fled, That I would lift a pin to see you there;You may, for me, be prowling anywhere, So long as you show not your little head:
No dark and evil story of the dead Would leave you less pernicious or less fair --Not even Lilith, with her famous hair;And Lilith was the devil, I have read.
I cannot hate you, for I loved you then.
The woods were golden then.There was a road Through beeches; and I said their smooth feet showed Like yours.Truth must have heard me from afar, For I shall never have to learn again That yours are cloven as no beech's are.
The Voice of AgeShe'd look upon us, if she could, As hard as Rhadamanthus would;Yet one may see, -- who sees her face, Her crown of silver and of lace, Her mystical serene address Of age alloyed with loveliness, --That she would not annihilate The frailest of things animate.
She has opinions of our ways, And if we're not all mad, she says, --If our ways are not wholly worse Than others, for not being hers, --There might somehow be found a few Less insane things for us to do, And we might have a little heed Of what Belshazzar couldn't read.
She feels, with all our furniture, Room yet for something more secure Than our self-kindled aureoles To guide our poor forgotten souls;But when we have explained that grace Dwells now in doing for the race, She nods -- as if she were relieved;Almost as if she were deceived.
She frowns at much of what she hears, And shakes her head, and has her fears;Though none may know, by any chance, What rose-leaf ashes of romance Are faintly stirred by later days That would be well enough, she says, If only people were more wise, And grown-up children used their eyes.
The Dark HouseWhere a faint light shines alone, Dwells a Demon I have known.
Most of you had better say "The Dark House", and go your way.
Do not wonder if I stay.
For I know the Demon's eyes, And their lure that never dies.
