Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Thomas BaileyAldrich697 Thalia
I
Oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel,
We part lovers, not foes;
We are not going to quarrel.
On foot and in gilded coaches,
Now that the whole thing ends,
To spoil our kiss with reproaches.
I pause, look back from the portal—
Ah, I no more am young,
And you, child, you are immortal!
Yours is the blossom’s weather—
When were December and May
Known to be happy together?
Before my moodiness grieve you,
While yet my heart is flame,
And I all lover, I leave you.
When you count the rich years over,
Think of me in my prime,
And not as a white-haired lover,
The wraith of a dead Desire,
Thrumming a cracked spinet
By a slowly dying fire.
Years hence, if the gods so will it—
Say, “He was true as gold,”
And wear a rose in your fillet!
Will come and sue for caresses,
Woo you, win you, and die—
Mind you, a rose in your tresses!
Some hold Clio the nearest;
You, sweet Comedy,—you
Were ever sweetest and dearest!
When writing your tragic sister
Say to that child of woe
How sorry I was I missed her.
Though “parting is such sweet sorrow” …
Perhaps I will, on my way
Down-town, look in to-morrow!