AFTER THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF “HAMLET”

A T table yonder sits the man we seek,
 Beside the ingle, where the crimson flare
Reveals him through the eddying tavern reek,
 Reclining easeful in his leathern chair;
In russet doublet, bearded and benign,
He looks a worthy burgher at his wine.

Even so; but when thy veins ran fire tonight,
 Thy hand crept knotted to thy swordhilt there,
And through all moods of madness and delight
 Thy soul was hurried headlong, unaware,
It seemed the genius or the scene should be

At sunset my brown nightingales
Hidden and hushed all day,
Ring vespers, while the color pales
And fades to twilight gray:
The little mellow bells they ring,
The little flutes they play,
Are soft as though for practising
The things they want to say.
It's when the dark has floated down
To hide and guard and fold,
I know their throats that look so brown,
Are really made of gold.
No music I have ever heard
Can call as sweet as they!
I wonder if it is a bird
That sings within the hidden tree,
Or some shy angel calling me

At sixteen years she knew no care;
— How could she, sweet and pure as light?
And there pursued her everywhere
— Butterflies all white.

A lover looked. She dropped her eyes
— That glowed like pansies wet with dew;
And lo, there came from out the skies
— Butterflies all blue.

Before she guessed her heart was gone;
— The tale of love was swiftly told;
And all about her wheeled and shone
— Butterflies all gold.

Then he forsook her one sad morn;
— She wept and sobbed, " Oh, love, come back! "

At six years old I had before mine eyes
A picture painted, like the rainbow, bright,
But far, far off in th' unapproachable distance.
With all my childish heart I longed to reach it,
And strove and strove the livelong day in vain,
Advancing with slow step some few short yards
But not perceptibly the distance lessening.
At threescore years old, when almost within
Grasp of my outstretched arms the selfsame picture
With all its beauteous colors painted bright,
I'm backward from it further borne each day
By an invisible, compulsive force,

AT Shelley's birth,
The Lark, dawn-spirit, with an anthem loud
Rose from the dusky earth
To tell it to the Cloud,
That, like a flower night-folded in the gloom,
Burst into morning bloom.

At Shelley's death,
The Sea, that deemed him an immortal, saw
A god's extinguished breath,
And landward, as in awe,
Upbore him to the altar whence he came,
And the rekindling flame.

At seven, when I go to bed,
I find such pictures in my head:
Castles with dragons prowling round,
Gardens where magic fruits are found;
Fair ladies prisoned in a tower,
Or lost in an enchanted bower;
While gallant horsemen ride by streams
That border all this land of dreams
I find, so clearly in my head
At seven, when I go to bed.

At seven, when I wake again,
The magic land I seek in vain;
A chair stands where the castle frowned,
The carpet hides the garden ground,
No fairies trip across the floor,
Boots, and not horsemen, flank the door,

I AM tired of this!
Nothing else but loving!
Nothing else but kiss and kiss,
Coo, and turtle-doving!
Can't you change the order some?
Hate me just a little — come!

Lay aside your " dears, "
" Darlings, " " kings, " and " princes! "
Call me knave, and dry your tears —
Nothing in me winces, —
Call me something low and base —
Something that will suit the case!

Wish I had your eyes
And their drooping lashes!
I would dry their teary lies
Up with lightning-flashes —

At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends,
And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends
Of all the village, two old dames that cling
As close as any trueloves in the spring.
Long, long ago they passed three-score-and-ten,
And in this doll's-house lived together then;
All things they have in common being so poor,
And their one fear, Death's shadow at the door.
Each sundown makes them mournful, each sunrise
Brings back the brightness in their failing eyes.

How happy go the rich fair-weather days
When on the roadside folk stare in amaze

At Peach Blossom Bank is Peach Blossom Retreat,
in Peach Blossom Retreat is the Immortal of Peach Blossoms!
The Immortal of Peach Blossoms planted the peach trees:
he plucks the blossoms and sells them for money to buy wine!
When he's sober, he just sits beneath the blossoms.
When he's drunk, he comes to lie beneath the blossoms.
Half sober, half drunk, day after day,
blossoms fall, blossoms bloom, year after year.
I wish only to grow old and die among blossoms and wine;
I have no desire to bow down before men in horse-drawn carriages!

At Paris it was, at the opera there;--
And she look'd like a queen in a book that night,
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low,
"Non ti scordar di me"?

The emperor there, in his box of state,