Kitobni o'qish: «The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic», sahifa 7

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.
 
 
  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.
 

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.
 
 
  We have too long been friends
       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!
 
 
  Mine is the glacier's way,
       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.
 
 
  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,
 
 
  Fretful, pierced with regret,
       the wraith of a dead Desire
  Thrumming a cracked spinet
       by a slowly dying fire.
 
 
  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!
 
 
  Others, tender as I,
       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!
 
 
  Nay, it is time to go—
       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!
 

PALINODE

 
  Who is Lydia, pray, and who
  Is 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.
 

A PETITION

 
  To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
  Spice of the roses let the summer own.
  Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
  That I may not write verse when I am old.
 
 
  And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
  Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
  And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
  I beg you very gently break the news.