The Dying Poet (verse)
Mullins, Helene
The Dying Poet During this hour shadows touch his eyes, For he has turned his back upon the sun. Lo, now he dies, as any other dies Who has not wandered far, as he has done, Beyond the...
...he does not call For music nor for wine nor anything...
...From these veiled eyes no more bright glances fall, From these still lips no rapturous murmuring...
...What could you say that he might understand, Whose loved ones were the flowers and the birds, Whose hands ne'er drooped beneath a human hand...
...See, he is glad to die...
...Slowly he seeks the earth, as others seek Grandeur and charm...
...Tis safe to bring him now a budding flower, Or lay a small soft bird upon his breast...
...and this shall be his gain...
...Oh, what do you say, Since the sweet singing youth is stricken dumb, And cannot shame you now as yesterday He shamed you for your false and foolish words...
...What do you say to him, all you who come In sombre garments...
...Helene Mullins...
...Not Beauty's touch again to mark his cheek, Nor Beauty's voice again to teach him pain...
...Lo, now he dies, as any other dies Who has not wandered far, as he has done, Beyond the blood-marked roads of beasts and men, Up to a pale field curved against the sky, Writing of Beauty, with a golden pen, Finding new shapes of love to deify...
...He shall no more slay hour after hour, Seeking a word of magic to suggest, Vaguely and faintly, his delight of such Bewildering things, and not again shall be Startled or stabbed by Beauty's sudden touch, Nor serve her with his former gallantry...
...Weary of love, and all things frail and fair, He lies, at last, upon an austere bed, And tho' low voices praise his classic style, And tho' soft fingers fall upon his head, He does not care...
...Bare are his hands that once wore Beauty's rings, Yet proud his pale kissed mouth, and sweet his hair To which the fragrance of her touch still clings...
...he does not turn, nor smile...
Vol. 2 • September 1925 • No. 17
