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.

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