Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley
Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend
The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally
To overwhelm them at their sudden end—
For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young,
And these—and these—may die at balls or races,
Or living death may make them loll the tongue,
Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces.
The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred
Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning
Of eyes—dead eyes—that know quite well they're dead—
And yet retain a certain childish cunning.
And each day till the end, is dragged along
This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb,
Toward the sea where wondering children throng,
Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom
That almost apes them—save the open eye
Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter,
This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die,"
While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter.
Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past,
—A few months younger these—and laugh together—
(She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast
An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather.
They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes,
—And wonder if her lover had been bored
"Look at the poor old thing!"
The dumb voice chokes;
The eye is open yet—each word a sword!
YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM
Battista Sforza, led by unicorns,
Triumphant, ever set in amber light
By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns
Her empty palace, still, that floating height
Where Raphael was born—Isotta's name,
Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom
Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame
His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb.