'Tis 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. And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak, -- a worn and shattered row: I am a shade: a shadow too art thou: I marke the time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time, and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune, -- Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. O'er her blue dress and 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. 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. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; There came a second lady to the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale, -- An inner beauty shining from her face. She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book, -- Herrick or Herbert -- watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true, -- Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound, And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, -- 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. 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. Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; So kinkly fronted that you marvelled how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe 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; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; 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. The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more no dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot, -- the record of a tear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY CLASS: ON CERTAIN FRUITS AND FLOWERS SENT ... SICKNESS by SIDNEY LANIER ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 1 by PHILIP SIDNEY CENTENNIAL HYMN by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER FLOWER AND THORN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SEASONS AND TIMES by WILLIAM BARNES THREE PORTRAITS by GAMALIEL BRADFORD MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE LORD HAYES: HESPERUS SPEAKS by THOMAS CAMPION |