TO A CABARET SINGER
Painted little singer of a painted song,
Painted little butterfly of a painted day,
The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses,
The cold of your caresses,
I'll tell you what they say—
"The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses,
The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay."
Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream,
Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray,
'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses)
'Tis not your sham sad poses
That tell your hollow day—
The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
The music's in my throat, but my soul no song discloses,
The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay.
IN THE THEATRE
Weep not, fair lady, for the false,
The fickle love's rememberance,
What though another claim the waltz—
The curtain soon will close the dance.
Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet,
Wild moment of thy vanished bliss;
The longest scene as Time is fleet—
The curtain soon will close the kiss.
And thou, too vain, too flattered mime,
Drink deep the pleasures of thy day,
No ruin is too mean for Time—
The curtain soon will close the play.