Five Sonnets
I.Perplex me not with words I understand,Nor gracefully demolish the unborn.You tell me that my fantasies are torn,But I have only written them on sand.You answer with a gesture of your handThough I have asked not, I have only sworn.Would you then burn green shoots with withered scorn?My lady, you do waste your flaming brand.I draw the pictures you desire to hide,When you return such compliments for mine,For love makes bitter poison into sweet.And there’ll be memory, when our quick eyes meet,To stir into a bubbling the gay wine.—Which of us will have fallen in our pride?II.But is it pride that motivates the play,Or brings the climax and the curtain call?—I question the new lilies that are tall,For wiser than a Solomon are they.But they have only parables to say,And only nod against the mossy wall,Pale blossoms of the sacrifice and gall,—They do not answer those who cannot pray?Their quick renascence from the tragedyWe do not act. We play the witty parts,And do not veil with curtains our decease.It is a trifle of a comic piece?We wear upon our sleeves our naked hearts?—Pride is not on, for we are two, not three.III.But there’s the dialogue that must confuse.It is not swift or brilliant otherwise.We make a parody of paradise,That it may fascinate, not to amuse.I grant it’s a lost quaint, uncommon ruse.But if it serves to open wide our eyes,Would it be well to fancy or deviseNew strange unheard of fables to abuse.Love is a clever scene that you have set,You the beginning, I will do the end.—It is a bargain of an enemy?Perhaps, but as a bargain let it be,For it is fair I should not be your friend—Now the dénouement of the cruel coquette.IV.You laugh again at this my imagery,But I will turn your laughter from my soul,Explain this love has humor as its goal,That you are quainter than the simile.You who have bound yourself so to be free,You who will lose the part to keep the whole,You who will quench with fire the living coal,—O strange and unaccounted mystery.Yes, I have flung you back your worn derision,Cast to you all my precious, secret oaths.Now as the curtain’s falling, take the applause.Foolish to fight with bastard natural laws,Even the ones that all of nature loathes.Lady, you have the worth of their decision.V.Charming?—A little long-drawn out?—or dead?It matters not. Open the exit doors,And let them out, and sweep the theatre floors,The dazzle of the footlights takes my head.—Good-night, and I shall totter off to bed.To-morrow’s play? God, how these lines are bores!You say it’s just the thing the crowd adores?—It likes the pretty ending where we’re wed?Thank God for night that is not made with lights,Stars that are quiet, unpainted, distant things,Wind that is dustless, fresh, and water-cool.—Some day I shall give over my new school,Permit myself the luxury of wings,—Yes, I can hear you: “And a pair of tights?”MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
I.Perplex me not with words I understand,Nor gracefully demolish the unborn.You tell me that my fantasies are torn,But I have only written them on sand.You answer with a gesture of your handThough I have asked not, I have only sworn.Would you then burn green shoots with withered scorn?My lady, you do waste your flaming brand.I draw the pictures you desire to hide,When you return such compliments for mine,For love makes bitter poison into sweet.And there’ll be memory, when our quick eyes meet,To stir into a bubbling the gay wine.—Which of us will have fallen in our pride?II.But is it pride that motivates the play,Or brings the climax and the curtain call?—I question the new lilies that are tall,For wiser than a Solomon are they.But they have only parables to say,And only nod against the mossy wall,Pale blossoms of the sacrifice and gall,—They do not answer those who cannot pray?Their quick renascence from the tragedyWe do not act. We play the witty parts,And do not veil with curtains our decease.It is a trifle of a comic piece?We wear upon our sleeves our naked hearts?—Pride is not on, for we are two, not three.III.But there’s the dialogue that must confuse.It is not swift or brilliant otherwise.We make a parody of paradise,That it may fascinate, not to amuse.I grant it’s a lost quaint, uncommon ruse.But if it serves to open wide our eyes,Would it be well to fancy or deviseNew strange unheard of fables to abuse.Love is a clever scene that you have set,You the beginning, I will do the end.—It is a bargain of an enemy?Perhaps, but as a bargain let it be,For it is fair I should not be your friend—Now the dénouement of the cruel coquette.IV.You laugh again at this my imagery,But I will turn your laughter from my soul,Explain this love has humor as its goal,That you are quainter than the simile.You who have bound yourself so to be free,You who will lose the part to keep the whole,You who will quench with fire the living coal,—O strange and unaccounted mystery.Yes, I have flung you back your worn derision,Cast to you all my precious, secret oaths.Now as the curtain’s falling, take the applause.Foolish to fight with bastard natural laws,Even the ones that all of nature loathes.Lady, you have the worth of their decision.V.Charming?—A little long-drawn out?—or dead?It matters not. Open the exit doors,And let them out, and sweep the theatre floors,The dazzle of the footlights takes my head.—Good-night, and I shall totter off to bed.To-morrow’s play? God, how these lines are bores!You say it’s just the thing the crowd adores?—It likes the pretty ending where we’re wed?Thank God for night that is not made with lights,Stars that are quiet, unpainted, distant things,Wind that is dustless, fresh, and water-cool.—Some day I shall give over my new school,Permit myself the luxury of wings,—Yes, I can hear you: “And a pair of tights?”MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
I.
I.
Perplex me not with words I understand,Nor gracefully demolish the unborn.You tell me that my fantasies are torn,But I have only written them on sand.You answer with a gesture of your handThough I have asked not, I have only sworn.Would you then burn green shoots with withered scorn?My lady, you do waste your flaming brand.
Perplex me not with words I understand,
Nor gracefully demolish the unborn.
You tell me that my fantasies are torn,
But I have only written them on sand.
You answer with a gesture of your hand
Though I have asked not, I have only sworn.
Would you then burn green shoots with withered scorn?
My lady, you do waste your flaming brand.
I draw the pictures you desire to hide,When you return such compliments for mine,For love makes bitter poison into sweet.And there’ll be memory, when our quick eyes meet,To stir into a bubbling the gay wine.—Which of us will have fallen in our pride?
I draw the pictures you desire to hide,
When you return such compliments for mine,
For love makes bitter poison into sweet.
And there’ll be memory, when our quick eyes meet,
To stir into a bubbling the gay wine.
—Which of us will have fallen in our pride?
II.
II.
But is it pride that motivates the play,Or brings the climax and the curtain call?—I question the new lilies that are tall,For wiser than a Solomon are they.But they have only parables to say,And only nod against the mossy wall,Pale blossoms of the sacrifice and gall,—They do not answer those who cannot pray?
But is it pride that motivates the play,
Or brings the climax and the curtain call?
—I question the new lilies that are tall,
For wiser than a Solomon are they.
But they have only parables to say,
And only nod against the mossy wall,
Pale blossoms of the sacrifice and gall,—
They do not answer those who cannot pray?
Their quick renascence from the tragedyWe do not act. We play the witty parts,And do not veil with curtains our decease.It is a trifle of a comic piece?We wear upon our sleeves our naked hearts?—Pride is not on, for we are two, not three.
Their quick renascence from the tragedy
We do not act. We play the witty parts,
And do not veil with curtains our decease.
It is a trifle of a comic piece?
We wear upon our sleeves our naked hearts?
—Pride is not on, for we are two, not three.
III.
III.
But there’s the dialogue that must confuse.It is not swift or brilliant otherwise.We make a parody of paradise,That it may fascinate, not to amuse.I grant it’s a lost quaint, uncommon ruse.But if it serves to open wide our eyes,Would it be well to fancy or deviseNew strange unheard of fables to abuse.
But there’s the dialogue that must confuse.
It is not swift or brilliant otherwise.
We make a parody of paradise,
That it may fascinate, not to amuse.
I grant it’s a lost quaint, uncommon ruse.
But if it serves to open wide our eyes,
Would it be well to fancy or devise
New strange unheard of fables to abuse.
Love is a clever scene that you have set,You the beginning, I will do the end.—It is a bargain of an enemy?Perhaps, but as a bargain let it be,For it is fair I should not be your friend—Now the dénouement of the cruel coquette.
Love is a clever scene that you have set,
You the beginning, I will do the end.
—It is a bargain of an enemy?
Perhaps, but as a bargain let it be,
For it is fair I should not be your friend
—Now the dénouement of the cruel coquette.
IV.
IV.
You laugh again at this my imagery,But I will turn your laughter from my soul,Explain this love has humor as its goal,That you are quainter than the simile.You who have bound yourself so to be free,You who will lose the part to keep the whole,You who will quench with fire the living coal,—O strange and unaccounted mystery.
You laugh again at this my imagery,
But I will turn your laughter from my soul,
Explain this love has humor as its goal,
That you are quainter than the simile.
You who have bound yourself so to be free,
You who will lose the part to keep the whole,
You who will quench with fire the living coal,—
O strange and unaccounted mystery.
Yes, I have flung you back your worn derision,Cast to you all my precious, secret oaths.Now as the curtain’s falling, take the applause.Foolish to fight with bastard natural laws,Even the ones that all of nature loathes.Lady, you have the worth of their decision.
Yes, I have flung you back your worn derision,
Cast to you all my precious, secret oaths.
Now as the curtain’s falling, take the applause.
Foolish to fight with bastard natural laws,
Even the ones that all of nature loathes.
Lady, you have the worth of their decision.
V.
V.
Charming?—A little long-drawn out?—or dead?It matters not. Open the exit doors,And let them out, and sweep the theatre floors,The dazzle of the footlights takes my head.—Good-night, and I shall totter off to bed.To-morrow’s play? God, how these lines are bores!You say it’s just the thing the crowd adores?—It likes the pretty ending where we’re wed?
Charming?—A little long-drawn out?—or dead?
It matters not. Open the exit doors,
And let them out, and sweep the theatre floors,
The dazzle of the footlights takes my head.
—Good-night, and I shall totter off to bed.
To-morrow’s play? God, how these lines are bores!
You say it’s just the thing the crowd adores?
—It likes the pretty ending where we’re wed?
Thank God for night that is not made with lights,Stars that are quiet, unpainted, distant things,Wind that is dustless, fresh, and water-cool.—Some day I shall give over my new school,Permit myself the luxury of wings,—Yes, I can hear you: “And a pair of tights?”
Thank God for night that is not made with lights,
Stars that are quiet, unpainted, distant things,
Wind that is dustless, fresh, and water-cool.
—Some day I shall give over my new school,
Permit myself the luxury of wings,—
Yes, I can hear you: “And a pair of tights?”
MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
MAXWELL E. FOSTER.