II
GAIETY
BLOW out the candles. Let the dance begin.
Already, pale as Sin,
The candles weep and pry like living things ...
They dance, who have no wings.
More vast and black than endless sleep, this room.
Time beats his empty drum
Whose hollow sound is echoed in our eyes—
Deep wells where no moon lies.
A crumpled paper mask hides every face—
Creased to a smile of grace,
With eyelids gilded, so the bitter tears
Make music for men’s ears.
These masks, some coloured like an August moon,
Or white, as sands that swoon
Within Time’s hour-glass, some as grey as rain,—
Still mimic joy and pain.
Thin pointed rags and tags edge our attire ...
Bright plumes?... or tongues of fire,