| The light of evening, Lissadell, |
| Great windows open to the south, |
| Two girls in silk kimonos, both |
| Beautiful,
one a gazelle. |
| But a raving autumn shears |
| Blossom from the summer’s wreath; |
| The older is condemned
to death, |
| Pardoned, drags out lonely years |
| Conspiring among the ignorant. |
| I know not what the younger
dreams— |
| Some vague Utopia—and she seems, |
| When withered old and skeleton-gaunt, |
| An image of
such politics. |
| Many a time I think to seek |
| One or the other out and speak |
| Of that old Georgian mansion,
mix |
| Pictures of the mind, recall |
| That table and the talk of youth, |
| Two girls in silk kimonos, both |
| Beautiful,
one a gazelle. |
|
|
|
|
| Dear shadows, now you know it all, |
| All the folly of a fight |
| With a common wrong or right. |
| The innocent and the beautiful |
| Have no enemy but time; |
| Arise and bid me strike a match |
| And strike
another till time catch; |
| Should the conflagration climb, |
| Run till all the sages know. |
| We the great gazebo
built, |
| They convicted us of guilt; |
| Bid me strike a match and blow. |
| October 1927 |
