Thalia

A Middle-Aged Lyrical Poet Is Supposed To Be Taking Final Leave Of The Muse Of Comedy. She Has Brought Him His Hat And Gloves, And Is Abstractedly Picking A Thread Of Gold Hair From His Coat Sleeve As He Begins To Speak:     I say it under the rose--     oh, thanks!--yes, under the laurel,     We part lovers, not foes;     we are not going to quarrel.     We have too long been friends     on foot and in gilded coaches,     Now that the whole thing ends,     to spoil our kiss with reproaches.     I leave you; my soul is wrung;     I pause, look back from the portal--     Ah, I no more am young,     and you, child, you are immortal!     Mine is the glacier's way,     yours is the blossom's weather--     When were December and May     known to be happy together?     Before my kisses grow tame,     before my moodiness grieve you,     While yet my heart is flame,     and I all lover, I leave you.     So, in the coming time,     when you count the rich years over,     Think of me in my prime,     and not as a white-haired lover,     Fretful, pierced with regret,     the wraith of a dead Desire     Thrumming a cracked spinet     by a slowly dying fire.     When, at last, I am cold--     years hence, if the gods so will it--     Say, "He was true as gold,"     and wear a rose in your fillet!     Others, tender as I,     will come and sue for caresses,     Woo you, win you, and die--     mind you, a rose in your tresses!     Some Melpomene woo,     some hold Clio the nearest;     You, sweet Comedy--you     were ever sweetest and dearest!     Nay, it is time to go--     when writing your tragic sister     Say to that child of woe     how sorry I was I missed her.     Really, I cannot stay,     though "parting is such sweet sorrow" . . .     Perhaps I will, on my way     down-town, look in to-morrow!