Those Dancing Days Are Gone
Before The World Was Made
Lady Weeping At The Crossroads
Felt My Like With Both My Hands
Promises Like Pie Crust
Autumn
If You Were Coming In The Fall
I Went To Heaven
Afternoon
Ballade At Thirty Five
At Last the Secret Is Out |
| » Those Dancing Days Are Gone « |
Come, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.
Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.
I thought it out this very day.
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag. |
| » Afternoon « |
When I am old, and comforted,
And done with this desire,
With memory to share my bed
And peace to share my fire,
I'll comb my hair in scalloped bands
Beneath my laundered cap,
And watch my cool and fragile hands
Lie light upon my lap.
And I will have a sprigged gown
With lace to kiss my throat;
I'll draw my curtain to the town,
And hum a purring note.
And I'll forget the way of tears,
And rock, and stir my tea.
But oh, I wish those blessed years
Were further than they be! |
| » Ballade At Thirty Five « |
This, no song of ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever the natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.
Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."
Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us -- hence
I loved them until they loved me.
Princes, never I'd give offense,
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents -
I loved them until they loved me. |
| » At Last the Secret Is Out « |
At last the secret is out,
As it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell
To tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and into the square
The tongues has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear,
There's never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
Behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances
And the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue
The attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story,
There is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing,
High up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes,
The sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer,
The handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret,
A private reason for this. |
|
