In the rosy light of my day’s fair morning,
Ere ever a storm cloud darkened the west,
Ere even a shadow of night gave warning
When life seemed only a pleasure quest,
Why then all humour and comedy scorning—
I liked high tragedy best.
I liked the challenge, the fierce fought duel,
With a death or a parting in every act.
I liked the villain to be more cruel
Than the basest villain could be in fact:
For it fed the fires of my mind with the fuel
Of the things that my life lacked.
But as time passed on, and I met real sorrow,
And she played at night on the stage—my heart,
I found I could not forget on the morrow
The pain I had felt in her tragic part.
For alas! no longer I needed to borrow
My grief from the actor’s art.
And as life grows older, and therefore sadder
(Though sweeter maybe with its autumn haze),
I find more pleasure in watching the gladder
And lighter order of humorous plays.
Where the mirth is as mad, or maybe madder,
Than the mirth of my lost days.
I like to be forced to laugh and be merry,
Though the earth with sorrow and pain is rife:
I like for an evening at least to bury
All thoughts of trouble, or pain, or strife.
In sooth, I like to be moved to the very
Emotions I miss in life.
AS WE LOOK BACK (RONDEAU)
As we look back at our lost Used-to-Be,
‘The light that never was on land or sea’
Touches the distant mountain peaks with gold,
And through the glass of memory we behold
Such blossoms as grow not on any lea.
The double leaf upon the poplar tree
Turns up its silver side to you and me,
And glow-worm lanterns light the lonely wold
As we look back.
No sounds we hear but echoes of young glee;
No winds we feel but west winds blowing free,
From those fair isles that seem a thousandfold
More beautiful than in the days of old;
And all the clouds that hang above them flee,
As we look back.