What a terrible night! Does the Night, I wonder—
The Night, with her black veil down to her feet
Like an ordained nun, know what lies under
That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet?
The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling,
Over the sad earth blindly go.
Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling,
Do they dream or know?
Why, here in the room, not a week or over—
Tho’ it must be a week, not more than one—
(I cannot recken of late or discover
When one day is ended or one begun),
But here in this room we were laughing lightly,
And glad was the measure our two hearts beat;
And the royal face that was smiling so brightly
Lies under that sheet.
I know not why—it is strange and fearful,
But I am afraid of her, lying there;
She who was always so gay and cheerful,
Lying so still with that stony stare:
She who was so like some grand sultana,
Fond of colour and glow and heat,
To lie there clothed in that awful manner
In a stark white sheet.
She who was made out of summer blisses,
Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair,
To lie and stare at my fondest kisses—
God! no wonder it whitens my hair
Shriek, O wind! for the world is lonely;
Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night’s feet!
For all that I prize in life is only
A shape and a sheet.
A PIN
Oh! I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good,
But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature and she’s very trim and neat.
And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin,
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can’t be said—
When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.
But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain—
If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain.
A pin is such a tiny thing—of that there is no doubt—
Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh, you’re wretched till it’s out!
She is wonderfully observing. When she meets a pretty girl
She is always sure to tell her if her “bang” is out of curl.
And she is so sympathetic; to her friend who’s much admired,
She is often heard remarking: “Dear, you look so worn and tired!”
And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride,
And she said: “Oh, how becoming!” and then softly added, “It
Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”