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Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!
Youth, love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward
Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond
Small the pipe; but O! do thou, Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, These dying, sound the triumph over death. Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy
Unknown before, in dying; for each knows A hero dies with him - though unfulfilled Yet conquering truly - and not dies in vain.
So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house
Of sorrows smiles to listen. Once again
HO comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain.
Who comes? My bursting walls, can you
The presences that now together throng Your narrow entry, as with flowers and
As with the air of life, the breath of talk? Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk Behind their jocund maker; and we see Slighted De Mauves, and that far different
Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast Daisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least!)
With all their silken, all their airy kin,
But he, attended by these shining names,
THE MIRROR SPEAKS
HERE the bells peal far at sea
There on palace walls I hung
While that Consuelo sung;
But I heard, though I listened well,
Never a beat of the chiming bell.
Shone from under shining hair.
But the lips moved and nothing said;
So awhile I glowed, and then
Fell on dusty days and men;
One that sees came passing by.
Now with an outlandish grace,