The Prison Mirror

FOR POETS ONLY

When evening forum ranks recess
And students homeward start
Along the lane that lushly flanks
The Institute of Art;

And lattermost, within the close
With unappointed time,
My solemn, solitary self
Leans idly with a lime;

Envisioning, beneath the boughs
That overhang the lane,
Ourselves as we were wont to stroll,
A mutely amorous twain;

Where, startled at the fountain's brink,
A lone, belated jay
Flits frantically beneath the clouds
Of flying plumes of spray,

Beholding midst the falling foam
Your fancied form appear—
As I advance, again dissolve
To ashen atmosphere,

I reconsider, whether I,
Instructed by a school
Of wiser men, have not become
More masculine a fool

As not I knew the utmost art
My heart is master of
When aptly on your lips I spelt,
"I love—I love—I love."

And when a while the verdant close
Withholds its hovering hush
As though a mate-lorn nightingale
Held vigil in the brush,

Again I bank the tide of thought
That wells about within
An ailing heart, to know again
The love of kith and kin:

Re-spell the lesson wherein I
So grievously have erred
Unto myself, and wonder then,
Have you, as I have fared?

Have you, as I, to fashion it,
Dishearteningly found
The world below, unchangingly
Is round—is round—is round?

Round as the ring whose gold engirds
A sacred marriage vow—
As round—as round, in numbers, say
A sum as much as—how?

I do not know—no matter, though:
I do not think 'twill add
As equal to the single sum
Of one I lately had.

Now, far abroad, I overhear
An echo of young mirth,
Acutely crying out upon
The quietness of earth.

On the adjacent boulevard
A rising, human stir
Commingles, is engulfed within
An automotive whir.

A klaxon's alternating note
Dispels the sense of harm;
A distant, swelling siren thrills
The soul with some alarm.

From overhead to me descends
A passing transport's drone
As doth a distant tom-tom drum
Upon the jungle's own.

And I, attentive to all signs,
Resign this quiet zone—
I pass beyond its rampant edge
And am again alone.

Alone, my dear—no more the man
Who once sincerely said,
"It shall not be, despite the day
We shall not die unwed."

No more, my dear, than is the stone
That staidly garners moss
The self-same stone that is the stone
That, rolling, gathers no moss

And yet, within a wider world
I could not fare astray
So far, nor would, could I retrace
That Path of Yesterday.

As constant swerves the beacon's beam
Atop the darkened mart
To guide an ace, eternal hope
Shall beckon on my heart.

And should you breathe your latest breath
To die, as I, unwed
Despite that promise—die assured
That I have long been dead

That quaffing yet the living cup,
Forbearingly I drained
Its bitterest drop with futile hope—
Its sweetest yet remained.