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| ’T IS an old dial, dark with many a stain; | |
| In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, | |
| Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, | |
| And white in winter like a marble tomb. | |
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| And round about its gray, time-eaten brow | 5 |
| Lean letters speak,—a worn and shattered row: | |
| I am a Shade; a Shadowe too art thou: | |
| I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? | |
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| Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head; | |
| And here the snail a silver course would run, | 10 |
| Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread | |
| His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. | |
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| The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; | |
| Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, | |
| That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune,— | 15 |
| Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. | |
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| O’er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; | |
| About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; | |
| And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, | |
| Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. | 20 |
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| She leaned upon the slab a little while, | |
| Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, | |
| Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, | |
| Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. | |
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| The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; | 25 |
| There came a second lady to the place, | |
| Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale,— | |
| An inner beauty shining from her face. | |
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| She, as if listless with a lonely love, | |
| Straying among the alleys with a book,— | 30 |
| Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove, | |
| And spied the tiny letter in the nook. | |
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| Then, like to one who confirmation found | |
| Of some dread secret half-accounted true,— | |
| Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound, | 35 |
| And argued loving commerce ’twixt the two,— | |
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| She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; | |
| The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; | |
| And ’twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone | |
| The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. | 40 |
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| The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; | |
| Then came a soldier gallant in her stead, | |
| Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, | |
| A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head. | |
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| Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, | 45 |
| Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; | |
| So kindly fronted that you marvelled how | |
| The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; | |
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| Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; | |
| Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; | 50 |
| And standing somewhat widely, like to one | |
| More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe | |
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| As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, | |
| Took out the note;—held it as one who feared | |
| The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; | 55 |
| Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; | |
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| Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; | |
| Laughed softly in a flattered, happy way, | |
| Arranged the broidered baldrick on his crest, | |
| And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. * * * * * | 60 |
| The shade crept forward through the dying glow; | |
| There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; | |
| But for a little time the brass will show | |
| A small gray spot,—the record of a tear. | |
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