And brave of women!--and he thrives as yet
Whose craven heart found courage to beget
The lie that slew you;--who, with fame made clear
And past his poison, rest till High God hear
Our prayer, and smite with godlike plenitude
This lean gray snake, and spill the venom spewed
In vain to guard his lewd blood-brother’s bier.
Not yet--most dear and brave!--may faith foretell
Fate’s fixed inevitable hour, nor be
Rewarded by its advent, to compel
This liar’s exile from all less vile than he,
And startle in the loneliest nook of hell
Iscariot and Cain with company.
39
“--AND EVER SHALL BE”
--After ALPHONSE MOREAU.
Sad hours and glad hours, and all hours, pass over;
One thing unshaken stays:
Life, that hath Death for spouse, hath Chance for lover;
Whereby decays
Each thing save one thing:--mid this strife diurnal
Of hourly change begot,
Love, that is God-born, bides as God eternal,
And changes not;--
Nor means a tinseled dream pursuing lovers
Find altered by and by,
When, with possession, time anon discovers
Trapped dreams must die,--
For he that visions God, of mankind gathers
One manlike trait alone,
And reverently imputes to Him a father’s
Love for his son.
40
THE PERFECT REASON
“_Le Roy Jésus crucifié_”
--ANTOINE RICZI.
King Jesus hung upon the Cross,
_And have ye sinned?_--quo’ He,--
_Nay, Dysmas, ’tis no honest loss
When Satan cogs the dice ye toss,
And thou shalt sup with Me,--
Sedebis apud angelos,
Quia amavisti!_
At Heaven’s Gate was Heaven’s Queen,
_And have ye sinned?_--quo’ She,--
_And would I hold him worth a bean
That durst not seek, because unclean,
My cleansing charity?--
Speak thou, that wast the Magdalene,
Quia amavisti!_
VI
SCOTEIA
“_Or il est mort, passé trente ans_”
41
TWO IN TWILIGHT
“_Ave, Maria, que l’amour Divine inspire_”
--ANTOINE RICZI.
I--ALBA
_Ave, Maria! whom Love did move
To triumph over earthly love._
Mother and Maid, now that wan stars take flight,
And larks with song assail high heaven’s height,
Unwillingly we lose the kindly night
That sheltered us when we were fain thereof.
For we are frail, and know not of His aim,
Yet Whosoever made us--were His name
Jove or Jehovah,--should we dare to blame
Our Maker that He made us fit for love?--
Were we not modeled by an Artizan
That to His liking shaped the soul of man,
And fashioned all things after His own plan.
Divulging nothing of the aims thereof?--
Is it by His grace we grow adventurous,
And, laughing, say:--_Love proves victorious,--
Who made love potent? if love hoodwink us
How may we dare reprove Him That made love_?
MATER, ORA FILIUM,
UT POST HOC EXILIUM
NOBIS DONET GAUDIUM
BEATORUM OMNIUM!
II--SERENA
_Ave, Maria! now cry we so
That see night wake and daylight go._
Mother and Maid, in nothing incomplete,
This night that gathers is more light and fleet
Than twilight trod alway with stumbling feet,
_Agentes semper uno animo_.
Ever we touch the prize we dare not take!
Ever we know that thirst we dare not slake!
Yet ever to a dreamed-of goal we make--
_Est tui cœli in palatio!_
Long, long the road, and set with many a snare;
And to how small sure knowledge are we heir
That blindly tread, with twilight everywhere!
_Volo in toto; sed non valeo!_
Long, long the road, and very frail are we,
That may not lightly curb mortality,
Nor lightly tread together steadfastly,
_Et parvum carmen unum facio_:--
MATER, ORA FILIUM,
UT POST HOC EXILIUM
NOBIS DONET GAUDIUM
BEATORUM OMNIUM!
42
“IN FINE,--”
_Good and evil, blending_,--
Everywhere men say,--
_Obscurely work at sending
Rewards on Judgment Day_.
_Good and evil, blending_,--
Elsewhere others bray,--
_Take no thought of ending,
Keep no ordered way,--
Eternally at play,
Aim but at inter playing_....
Thirdly, some offend
Ineffably by saying,
Not without shrugs, _My friend,
Good and evil blend_.
43
STY-SONG
--After NICOLAS DE CAEN.
As with her dupes dealt Circê,
Life deals with hers, for she
Reshapes them without mercy,
And shapes them swinishly,
To wallow swinishly,
And for eternity;--
Though, harder than the witch was,
Life, changing not the whole,
Transmutes the body, which was
Proud garment of the soul,
And briefly drugs the soul,
Whose ruin is her goal;--
And means by this thereafter
A subtler mirth to get,
And mock with bitterer laughter
Her helpless dupes’ regret,
Their swinish dull regret
For what they half forget.
44
THE TOY-MAKER
From the dawn of the day to the dusk he toiled,
Shaping fanciful playthings with tireless hands,--
Useless trumpery toys; and, with vaulting heart,
Gave them unto all peoples--who mocked at him,
Trampled on them, and soiled them, and went their way.
Then he toiled from the morn to the dusk again,
Gave his gimcracks to people who mocked at him,
Trampled on them, deriding, and went their way.
Thus he labors, and loudly they jeer at him;--
That is, when they remember he still exists.
_Who_, you ask, _is this fellow?_--What matter names?
He is only a scribbler who is content.
45
THE CASTLE OF CONTENT
--PROVENÇAL BURDEN.
Through the mist of years does it gleam as yet--
That fair and free extent
Of moonlit turret and parapet,
Which castled, once, Content?
_Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content,
With drowsy music drowning merriment
Where Dreams and Visions held high carnival,
And frolicking frail Loves made light of all,--
Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!_
Such toll we took of his niggling Hours
That the troops of Time were sent
To seize the treasures and fell the towers
Of the Castle of Content.
_Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content,
With flaming roof and tumbling battlement
Where Time hath conquered, and the firelight streams
Above sore-wounded Loves and dying Dreams,--
Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!_
The towers are fallen; no laughter rings
Through the rafters, charred and rent;
The ruin is wrought of all goodly things
In the Castle of Content.
_Ei ho! Ei ho! the Castle of Content,
Razed in the Land of Youth, where mirth was meant!
Nay, all is ashes there; and all in vain
Hand-shadowed eyes turn backward, to regain
Disastrous memories of that dear domain,--
Ei ho! the vanished Castle of Content!_
46
THE PARODIST
--After PAUL VERVILLE.
I hear proud singing at times;
And when that singing is ended
I mimic, with arduous rhymes,
A song which I knew to be splendid,
And make of what I comprehended--
I singly,--a thing so absurd
That rightly is reason offended.
What matter?--My rhymes are blurred
Because I wept when I heard
Proud singing whereof these rhymes
Iterate never a word;
And safely I treasure the times
Wherein is a song that climbs,
And my heart singly is stirred.
47
THE DARK COMPANION
“_Nous sommes unités à cette fin_”
--CHARLES GARNIER.
I AND MY SHADOW ARE SO MADE ONE
THAT WERE WE PARTED EACH LIFE WERE DONE.
Throughout the flight of the blithe bright day
Always he follows me, doggedly;
But I need not heed him,--because my way
Is flecked with sunlight,--and shrug to see
How fondly my Shadow follows me.
When dying day grows chill and stark,
And vigilant stars troop each to his place,
He rises,--being free in the dark,
He rises and grins,--being freed for a space,
He rises to talk with me face to face.
Then he tells me of much I am loth to hear,
For he whispers of all that we two have seen,
And loved, and squandered. _At forty year,
My master, how wide is the gulf between
That which we are and what might have been!_
And he whispers of dreams that the years degrade,
And of lust made lord over love’s demesne,
And of chances wasted, and faith betrayed.
_My master, how wide is the gulf between
That which we are and what might have been!_
Even thus he whispers; and he and I
Sit thus, alone, till the night’s defeat
Is signaled eastward, and chance thereby
Wins room for a morrow, fair and fleet,
That finds my Shadow beneath my feet.
I AND MY SHADOW ARE SO MADE ONE
THAT WERE WE PARTED EACH LIFE WERE DONE.
48
SEA-SCAPES
I lie and dream in the soft warm sand; and the thunder and surge and
the baffled roar
Of the sea’s relentless and vain endeavors are a pleasant lullaby,
here on shore.
Since a little hillock screens yonder ageless tenacious battlings
(which shatter, and pass
In foam and spume), I appraise, half-nodding, much sand and sky and
gaunt nodding grass.
And I am content to lie and dream; and I am too drowsy to rise, and
see
If it be worth breasting--that ocean yonder, which a little hillock
hides from me.
VII
VERTICORDIA
“_A vous parle, compaings de galles_”
49
THE AGELESS MAID
“_Amors, qu’a escien m’a donat tal voler_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
Man’s Love, that leads me day by day
Through many a screened and scented way,
Finds to assuage my thirst
No love that may the old love slay,
None sweeter than the first.
Fond heart of mine, that beats so fast
As this or that fair maid trips past,
Once, and with lesser stir,
We viewed the grace of love, at last,
And turned idolater.
Lad’s Love it was, that in the spring
When all things woke to blossoming,
Was as a child that came
Laughing, and filled with wondering,
Nor knowing his own name.
And still--whatever years impend
To witness time a fickle friend
And youth a dwindling fire,--
I must adore till all years end
My first love, Heart’s Desire.
I may not hear men speak of her
Unmoved, and vagrant pulses stir
To greet her passing-by,
And I, in all her worshipper,
Must serve her till I die.
For I remember: this is she
That reigns in one man’s memory
Immune to age and fret,
And stays the maid I may nor see
Nor win to, nor forget.
50
FROM AFAR
“_Domna, si no us vezon mei heulh_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
I
Félise, whose will, yet undiscerned, commands
My willing heart, stayest thou unmoved to see
How Love, forlorn and reft of empery,
Strains toward thy free heart with bleeding hands?
Now the last hour of day runs leaden sands
Hast thou indeed, Félise, no thought of me,
As all my thoughts take wing and throng to thee
Athwart the long leagues of dividing lands?
Félise, I am long sick with long delay,
Brain-wearied with long dreaming of thy grace,
Heart-hungered with long waiting in this place
Of days that are so long, whilst Love’s own day,
Longed-for so long, draws on with leisured pace
To make thee mine, dear love so far away.
II
_Félise, have pity!_--cringing, at thy door
Entreats, with dolorous cry and clamoring,
That mendicant who quits thee nevermore:
Now winter chills the world, and no birds sing
In any woods, yet as in wanton spring
He follows thee; and never will have done,
Though nakedly he die, from following
Whither thou leadest.
Canst thou look upon
His woes, and laugh to see a goddess’ son
Of wide dominion, and in strategy
More strong than Jove, more wise than Solomon,
Inept to combat thy severity?
Félise, have pity! and let Love be one
Among the folk that bear thee company.
51
COMPETITORS
--After ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI.
Heart o’ My Heart, dost thou not hear
Tired waves, perturbed by the mystery
Of the voiding east where vext winds veer,
Lamenting and lisping?--_I, the Sea,
Grapple and strain till I win to thee
I have loved so long, and may never depart
From that age-long siege till I win to thee,
Though I win as Enipëus, Heart o’ My Heart._
--The Sea’s exordium
Pleads thus, _cor cordium_.
Heart o’ My Heart, dost thou not hear
A sighing of dying Winds?--crying to thee:--
_We that were friendly with Guinevere,
And wafted Queen Helen oversea,_
_And served that lady of mystery
Balkis, a Sheban--caress and depart
Unwillingly, finding none fairer than thee
In those cold old venturings, Heart o’ My Heart._
--The Winds’ exordium
Sighs thus, _cor cordium_.
Heart o’ My Heart, dost thou not hear
Love that strives--as the yearning Sea,
As the truant Winds,--for the staid, and severe,
And sturdy and stainless heart of thee?--
Nay, without warning Love wins to thee
Suddenly some day, swift to impart
The secret of tears and the mystery
Of sorrow and heartbreak, Heart o’ My Heart.
--Without exordium
Love takes, _cor cordium_.
All sighs and tears are the Winds and the Sea,
And fit precursors--nay, portion and part--
Of Love that is silent, and wins to thee
Silently some day, Heart o’ My Heart.
52
THE STRIKING HOUR
“_Comme un Croisé vaincu, qui longtemps languissait_”
--NICOLAS DE CAEN.
I
As one imprisoned, that hath lain alone
And dreamed of sunlight where no vagrant gleam
Of sunlight pierces, being freed, must deem
This too but dreaming, and must dread the sun
Whose glory dazzles;--even as such-an-one
Am I, whose longing was but now supreme
For this high hour, and, now it strikes, esteem
I do but dream long dreamed-of goals are won.
Take heed! be still! lest haply God reprove.
We have climbed too high! Those note us overhead
Who know I am unworthy of your love;
And when yet-parted lips, sigh-visited,
End speech and wait, mine when I will to move,
Such joy awakens that I grow afraid.
II
Yet I have loved you in so many ways,--
With reverence always, and such purity
As often curbs that which is base in me;
And, though some folly oftentimes betrays
My purpose into naught, through all these days
Till this day I had striven silently
To win at last to what, at least, would be
Earth-staggering homage reverberant in your praise.
To-day in flight from world-wide dissonance,
I storm your heart,--and claim not any fee
For any service rendered anywhere,
But as one comes to his inheritance
Demand admittance, knowing my love to be
No whit unworthy even to enter there.
III
Catullus might have made of words that seek
With rippling sound, in soft recurrent ways,
The perfect song, or in remoter days
Theocritus have hymned you in glad Greek;
But I am not as they,--and dare not speak
Of you unworthily, and dare not praise
Perfection with imperfect roundelays,
And desecrate the prize I dare to seek.
I do not woo you, then, by fashioning
Vext analogues ’twixt you and Guinevere;
Nor do I come with agile lips that bring
The sugared periods of a sonneteer,
And bring no more,--but just with lips that cling
To yours, in murmuring, _I love you, dear_!
53
LIGHTS OF THE WORLD
--After CHARLES GARNIER.
Speed forth, my song, the sun’s ambassador,
Lest in the east night prove the conqueror,
And day be slain, and darkness triumph,--for
The sun is single, but her eyes are twain.
And now the sunlight and the night contest
A doubtful battle, and day bides at best
Doubtful, till Phyllis wake. It is attest
The sun is single.
But her eyes are twain,--
And should the light of all the world delay,
And darkness prove victorious? Is it day
Now that the sun alone is risen?
Nay,
The sun is single, but her eyes are twain,--
Twain firmaments that mock with heavenlier hue
The heavens’ less lordly and less gracious blue,
And lit with sunlier sunlight through and through.
The sun is single, but her eyes are twain,
And of fair things this side of Paradise
Fairest, of goodly things most goodly.
Rise!
And succor the benighted world that cries,
_The sun is single, but her eyes are twain_!
54
“--OF ANISE AND CUMMIN ALSO”
--After NICOLAS DE CAEN.
It is in vain I mirror forth the praise
In pondered virelais
Of her that is the lady of my love;
Far-sought and curious phrases fail to tell
The tender miracle
Of her white body and the grace thereof.
Thus many and many an artful-artless strain
Is fashioned all in vain:
Sound proves unsound; and even her name, that is
To me more glorious than the glow of fire
Or dawn or love’s desire
Or opals interlinked with turquoises,
Mocks utterance.
So, lacking skill to praise
That perfect bodily beauty which is hers,
Even as those worshippers
Who bore rude offerings of honey and maize,
Their all, into the gold-paved ministers
Of Aphroditê, I have given her these
My faltering melodies,
That are Love’s lean and ragged messengers.
55
“SWEET ADELAIS”
--After RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
Had you lived when earth was new
What had bards of old to do
Save to sing in praise of you?
Had you lived in ancient days,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
You had all the ancients’ praise,--
You whose beauty would have won
Canticles of Solomon,
Had the sage Judean king
Gazed upon this goodliest thing
Earth of Heaven’s grace hath got.
Had you gladdened Greece, were not
All the nymphs of Greece forgot?
Had you trod Sicilian ways,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
You had pilfered all their praise:
Bion and Theocritus
Had transmitted unto us
Honeyed harmonies to tell
Of your beauty’s miracle,
Delicate, desirable,
And their singing skill were bent
You-ward tenderly,--content,
While the world slipped by, to gaze
On the grace of you, and praise
Sweet Adelais.
Had you lived in Roman times
No Catullus in his rhymes
Had lamented Lesbia’s sparrow!
He had praised your forehead, narrow
As the newly-crescent moon,
White as apple-trees in June;
He had made some amorous tune
Of the laughing light Erôs
Snared as Psychê-ward he goes
By your beauty,--by your slim,
White, perfect beauty.
After him
Horace, finding in your eyes
Horace limned in lustrous wise,
Would have made you melodies
Fittingly to hymn your praise,
Sweet Adelais.
Had your father’s household been
Guelfic-born or Ghibelline,
Beatricê were unknown
On her star-encompassed throne.
For, had Dante viewed your grace,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
You had reigned in Bicê’s place,--
Had, for candles, Sirius,
Rigel and Rutilicus,
Whilst you heard Zacháriel
Chant of you, and, chanting, tell
All the grace of you, and praise
Sweet Adelais.
Had you lived when earth was new
What had bards of old to do
Save to sing in praise of you?
They had sung of you always,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
As worthiest of all men’s praise;
Nor had undying melodies
Wailed soft as love may sing of these
Dream-hallowed names,--of Héloïse,
Ysoude, Salomê, Semelê,
Morgaine, Lucrece, Antiopê,
Brunhilda, Helen, Mélusine,
Penelopê, and Magdalene:
--But you alone had all men’s praise,
Sweet Adelais.
56
LOVE’S LOVERS
--After RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
_Nor had undying melodies
Wailed soft as love may sing of these
That are love’s martyrs,--Héloïse,
Brunhilda, Helen, Mélusine,
Antiopê, and Magdalene,--
Ysoude, Salomê, Semelê,
Lucretia, and Penelopê._
What of these ladies that have been
Exalted by stern songs wherein
Beats strong the valorous heart of Love
And all the power and pride thereof--
Unto what haven are they sped?
Because they are not wholly dead:
The Land of Matters Unforgot
They walk at will, where time is not
And death has no dominion,--
And there they never view the sun,
But through a vague and amiable
Hushed twilight pass, and, passing, tell
Their tale of ancient miseries,
And neither laugh nor weep.
To these,
Whose lives were troubled harmonies
Whereby the heart of Love yet is
Enamored, Love at last accords
An end of love. To these, the Lords
Of Life and Death, that kindled lust,
And wrath, and joy frail as blown dust,
And faith like flame that braves the wind;
And kindled for each sin they sinned
Fame, and for every misery fame
Set as a flaring star to flame
And blaze and glow above the seas
Where light love founders: have granted peace
Unvexed by heart-beats.--Thus they pass,
Desiring naught of life that was
Exhausted of all things long ago,--
With void eyes, emptied of woe,
Emptied of joy, pass hand-in-hand,
Being shadows in a shadow land.
The story of their love is writ
In song; the valiant sound of it
Endures unaltered evermore:
But we, that love as heretofore
These loved, must perish, as they, and be
Forgotten by all men utterly.
I cry _Content_! Our names will die.
I cry _Content_! and cheerily,
Félise.
Our love-songs are unsung,
Yet we have loved. We have been young
In April and in unison ...
Oblivious of oblivion,
And heedless of each after-year,
How well we lived our verses, dear!
VIII
RIDENS
“_Soient blanches, soient brunettes_”
57
BALLAD OF PLAGIARY
“_Frères et maîtres, vous qui cultivez_”
--PAUL VERVILLE.
Hey, my masters, lords and brothers, ye that till the fields of rhyme,
Are ye deaf ye will not hearken to the clamor of your time?
Still ye blot and change and polish--vary, heighten and transpose--
Old sonorous metres marching grandly to their tranquil close.
Ye have toiled and ye have fretted; ye attain perfected speech:
Ye have nothing new to utter and but platitudes to preach.
Still your rhymes are all of loving, as within the old days when
Love was lord of the ascendant in the horoscopes of men.
Still ye make of love the utmost end and scope of all your art,
And, more blind than he you write of, note not what a modest part
Loving now may claim in living, when we have scant time to spare,
Who are plundering the sea-depths, taking tribute of the air,--
Whilst the sun makes pictures for us; since to-day, for good or ill,
Earth and sky and sea are harnessed, and the lightnings work our will.
Hey, my masters, all these love-songs by dust-hidden mouths were sung
That ye mimic and re-echo with an artful-artless tongue,--
Sung by poets close to nature, free to touch her garments’ hem
Whom to-day ye know not truly; for ye only copy them.
Them ye copy, copy always, with your backs turned to the sun,
Caring not what man is doing, noting that which man has done.
_We are talking over telephones, as Shakespeare could not talk;
We are riding out in motor-cars, where Homer had to walk;
And pictures Dante labored on of mediæval Hell
The nearest cinematograph paints quicker, and as well._
But ye copy, copy always;--and ye marvel when ye find
This new beauty, that new meaning,--while a model stands behind,
Waiting, young and fair as ever, till some singer turn and trace
Something of the deathless wonder of life lived in any place.
Hey, my masters, turn from piddling to the turmoil and the strife!
Cease from sonneting, my brothers; let us fashion songs from life.
THUS I WROTE ERE SYLVIA PASSED ME.... THEN DID I EPITOMIZE
ALL LIFE’S BEAUTY IN ONE POEM, AND MAKE HASTE TO EULOGIZE
QUITE THE FAIREST THING LIFE BOASTS OF, FOR I WROTE OF SYLVIA’S EYES.
58
TOUCHING UBIQUITY
“_Voulant faire un cadeau digne de la plus belle_”
--CHARLES GARNIER.
I
The gods in honor of my Sylvia’s worth
Bore gifts to her:--and Jove, Olympus’ lord,
Co-rule of Earth and Heaven did accord,
And Hermes brought that lyre he framed at birth,
And Venus her famed girdle (to engirth
A fairer beauty now), and Mars his sword,
And wrinkled Plutus half the secret hoard
And immemorial treasure of mid-earth;--
And while the careful gods were pondering
Which of these goodly gifts the goodliest was,
Young Cupid came among them carolling
And proffered unto her a looking-glass,
Wherein she gazed and saw the goodliest thing
That Earth had borne, and Heaven might not surpass.
II
Cupid invaded Hell, and boldly drove
Before him all the hosts of Erebus,
Till he had conquered; and grim Cerberus
Sang madrigals, the Furies rhymed of love,
Old Charon sighed, and sonnets rang above
The gloomy Styx; and even as Tantalus
Was Prosperine discrowned in Tartarus,
And Cupid regnant in the place thereof.
Thus Love is monarch throughout Hell to-day;
In Heaven we know his power was always great;
And Earth acclaimed Love’s mastery straightway
When Sylvia came to gladden Earth’s estate:--
Thus Hell and Heaven and Earth his rule obey,
And Sylvia’s heart alone is obdurate.
59
FANCIES IN FILIGREE
--Strambotti of ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI.
XXIV
“_Guarda negli occhi la nostra regina_”
My Lady’s Eyes Remembrance bring
Of lyttel Waves whose Wavering
Beneathe ye roving Summer Breeze
Makes scintillant hushed Summer Seas
Whenas ye Sun is vanishing.
They gladden me, as when in Spring
We sing & knowe not why we sing.
In sooth, there be noe Eyes like these
My Lady’s Eyes.
Whenas their Glance is threatening
They frighten Cupid, & that King
From Florimel a-quaking flees;
But when they soften, on hys Knees
Love falls before them worshipping
My Lady’s Eyes.
XLI
“_Rime d’amore usar dolci e leggiadre_”
Ye little Rhyme I swore last Night
To lay before ye Eyes so bright
I have long loved--& loved too well!--
So now ye Muses to compell,
& shapely Phrases to indite.
Which shall it be?--Ye Villanelle,
Ode, Triolet, Rondeau, Rondel,
Ballade, or Sonnet?--Each is hight
Ye littel Rhyme.
Yet none will aide my hapless Plight:
All little Rhymes are short & slight,
& of ye Charmes of Florimel
An Epick’s Length alone can tell,--
So that of her I may not write
Ye lyttel Rhyme.
60
IT IS ENOUGH
--After NICOLAS DE CAEN.
Love me or love me not, it is enough
That I have loved you, seeing my whole life is
Uplifted and made glad by the glory of Love,--
My life that was a scroll bescrawled and blurred
With tavern-catches, which that pity of his
Erased, and wrote instead one lonely word,
_Yolande!_