Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The MaskElizabeth Barrett Browning (18061861)
I
I have a jest for all I meet,
I have a garland for my head
And all its flowers are sweet,—
And so you call me gay, she said.
And Wrong did teach this jesting bold;
These flowers were plucked from garden-bed
While a death-chime was tolled.
And what now will you say?—she said.
Which slurs the sunshine half a mile,
Live captives so uncomforted
As souls behind a smile.
God’s pity let us pray, she said.
Such brightness, dying suns diffuse;
I bear upon my forehead shed
The sign of what I lose,—
The ending of my day, she said.
And take a moan upon my mouth,
And tie a cypress round my head,
And let my tears run smooth,—
It were the happier way, she said.
I fain your bitter world would leave.
How calmly, calmly, smile the Dead,
Who do not, therefore, grieve!
The yea of Heaven is yea, she said.
Face-joy ’s a costly mask to wear,
’Tis bought with pangs long nourishèd
And rounded to despair.
Grief’s earnest makes life’s play, she said.
Ah fools! I bid you pass them by.
Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled
What time their eyes were dry.
Whom sadder can I say? she said.