VIOLET.
WALTER.
We read and wrote together, slept together;
We dwelt on slopes against the morning sun,
We dwelt in crowded streets, and loved to walk
While Labour slept; for, in the ghastly dawn,
The wildered city seemed a demon's brain,
The children of the night its evil thoughts.
Sometimes we sat whole afternoons, and watched
The sunset build a city frail as dream,
With bridges, streets of splendour, towers; and saw
The fabrics crumble into rosy ruins,
And then grow grey as heath. But our chief joy
Was to draw images from everything;
And images lay thick upon our talk,
As shells on ocean sands.
VIOLET.
From everything!
Here is the sunset, yonder grows the moon,
What image would you draw from these?
WALTER.
Why, this.
The sun is dying like a cloven king
In his own blood; the while the distant moon,
Like a pale prophetess, whom he has wronged,
Leans eager forward, with most hungry eyes,
Watching him bleed to death, and, as he faints,
She brightens and dilates; revenge complete,
She walks in lonely triumph through the night.
VIOLET.
Give not such hateful passion to the orb
That cools the heated lands; that ripes the fields,
While sleep the husbandmen, then hastes away
Ere the first step of dawn, doing all good
In secret and the night. 'Tis very wrong.
Would I had known your friend!