Thalia

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!