I
Her Courtesy
WITH the old kindness, the old distinguished grace | |
| She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair | |
| Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face. | |
| She would not have us sad because she is lying there, | |
| And when she meets our gaze her eyes are laughter-lit, | 5 |
| Her speech a wicked tale that we may vie with her | |
| Matching our broken-hearted wit against her wit, | |
| Thinking of saints and of Petronius Arbiter. | |
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II
Certain Artists bring her Dolls and Drawings
Bring where our Beauty lies | |
| A new modelled doll, or drawing, | 10 |
| With a friend’s or an enemy’s | |
| Features, or maybe showing | |
| Her features when a tress | |
| Of dull red hair was flowing | |
| Over some silken dress | 15 |
| Cut in the Turkish fashion, | |
| Or it may be like a boy’s. | |
| We have given the world our passion | |
| We have naught for death but toys. | |
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III
She turns the Dolls’ Faces to the Wall
| 20 |
| |
| Because to-day is some religious festival | |
| They had a priest say Mass, and even the Japanese, | |
| Heel up and weight on toe, must face the wall | |
| —Pedant in passion, learned in old courtesies, | |
| Vehement and witty she had seemed—; the Venetian lady | 25 |
| Who had seemed to glide to some intrigue in her red shoes, | |
| Her domino, her panniered skirt copied from Longhi; | |
| The meditative critic; all are on their toes, | |
| Even our Beauty with her Turkish trousers on. | |
| Because the priest must have like every dog his day | 30 |
| Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, | |
| We and our dolls being but the world were best away. | |
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IV
The End of Day
She is playing like a child | |
| And penance is the play, | |
| Fantastical and wild | 35 |
| Because the end of day | |
| Shows her that some one soon | |
| Will come from the house, and say— | |
| Though play is but half-done— | |
| ‘Come in and leave the play.’— | 40 |
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V
Her Race
She has not grown uncivil | |
| As narrow natures would | |
| And called the pleasures evil | |
| Happier days thought good; | |
| She knows herself a woman | 45 |
| No red and white of a face, | |
| Or rank, raised from a common | |
| Unreckonable race; | |
| And how should her heart fail her | |
| Or sickness break her will | 50 |
| With her dead brother’s valour | |
| For an example still. | |
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VI
Her Courage
When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place | |
| (I have no speech but symbol, the pagan speech I made | |
| Amid the dreams of youth) let her come face to face, | 55 |
| While wondering still to be a shade, with Grania’s shade | |
| All but the perils of the woodland flight forgot | |
| That made her Dermuid dear, and some old cardinal | |
| Pacing with half-closed eyelids in a sunny spot | |
| Who had murmured of Giorgione at his latest breath— | 60 |
| Aye and Achilles, Timor, Babar, Barhaim, all | |
| Who have lived in joy and laughed into the face of Death. | |
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VII
Her Friends bring her a Christmas Tree
Pardon, great enemy, | |
| Without an angry thought | |
| We’ve carried in our tree, | 65 |
| And here and there have bought | |
| Till all the boughs are gay, | |
| And she may look from the bed | |
| On pretty things that may | |
| Please a fantastic head. | 70 |
| Give her a little grace, | |
| What if a laughing eye | |
| Have looked into your face— | |
| It is about to die. | |
