He’s a villain—deep—politic—
Bitter things these tonics, all,
Manufactured by the critic
From his mighty store of gall.
Jacynth
“We have been something more than friends, Jacynth,
You know that well, yet now you say ‘my friend,
I give you welcome home,’ in such cold way
I scarce believe it is Jacynth who speaks—
Jacynth, who used to give—but let it pass.
The new year finds me with a heavy heart,
I come to seek the girl
I used to know,
The happy, trusting, tender girl, and lo—
I find her grown into a woman proud,
With richer dower of beauty for her own,
But far less lovable than my Jacynth.”
Jacynth:
“We both are changed, I think.”
Derwent:
“It is not so.
I am not of the sort that gets new friends
Like fashions for each season as it comes.”
Jacynth:
“Hark to the bells! a happy year, Derwent;
Give me your hand and wish as much for me.”
Derwent:
“You wish me happiness, and yet deny
My heart the highway to it.”
Jacynth:
“Happiness!
I would that words might win the illusive
Thing to carry with thee alway. How I
Would wheedle! She cannot suit her step
To ours for long, she wearieth of our slow
And sober pace and flitteth where she will—
Now near, now far away. We search in vain,
And when we go with down-bent head and eyes
Tear-filled, lo! on a sudden shineth round
Our feet her rainbow hues, and to our breast
She creepeth down with eager willingness.”
Derwent: