When thou hast taken thy last applause, and when

The final curtain strikes the world away,

Leaving to shadowy silence and dismay

That stage which shall not know thy smile again,

Lingering a little while I see thee then

Ponder the tinsel part they let thee play;

I see the red mouth tarnished, the face grey,

And smileless silent eyes of Magdalen.

The lights have laughed their last; without, the street

Darkling, awaiteth her whose feet have trod

The silly souls of men to golden dust.

She pauses, on the lintel of defeat,

Her heart breaks in a smile—and she is Lust ...

Mine also, little painted poem of God.

This is the garden: colors come and go,

Frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing,

Strong silent greens serenely lingering,

Absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

This is the garden: pursed lips do blow

Upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing,

Of harps celestial to the quivering string,

Invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap,

And on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,

In other lands where other songs be sung;

Yet stand They here enraptured, as among

The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep

Some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

It may not always be so; and I say

That if your lips, which I have loved, should touch

Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch

His heart, as mine in time not far away;

If on another's face your sweet hair lay

In such a silence as I know, or such

Great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,

Stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

If this should be, I say if this should be—

You of my heart, send me a little word;

That I may go unto him, and take his hands,

Saying, Accept all happiness from me.

Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird

Sing terribly afar in the lost lands.