Not mine those moments when the roses lay Like red spilled wine on his triumphant way, And shouts acclaimed him through the music's beat, Above the voice of flute and violin. But I have known his hour of sore defeat -- I -- I have known the tears of Harlequin. Light kisses and light words, they were not mine -- Poor perquisites of many a Columbine Bought with his laughter, flattered by his jest; But when despair broke through the painted grin, His tortured face has fallen on my breast -- I -- I have known the tears of Harlequin. You weep for him, who look upon him dead, That joy and jest and merriment are fled; You weep for him, what time my eyes are dry, Knowing what peace a weary soul may win Stifled by too much masking -- even I -- I, who have known the tears of Harlequin. The Buried City. [George Sylvester Viereck] My heart is like a city of the gay Reared on the ruins of a perished one Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun, White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day. Within the buried city stirs no sound, Save for the bat, forgetful of the rod, Perched on the knee of some deserted god, And for the groan of rivers underground. Stray not, my Love, 'mid the sarcophagi -- Tempt not the silence, for the fates are deep, Lest all the dreamers, deeming doomsday nigh, Leap forth in terror from their haunted sleep; And like the peal of an accursed bell Thy voice call ghosts of dead things back from hell. The Ride to the Lady. [Helen Gray Cone] "Now since mine even is come at last, -- For I have been the sport of steel, And hot life ebbeth from me fast, And I in saddle roll and reel, -- Come bind me, bind me on my steed! Of fingering leech I have no need!" The chaplain clasped his mailed knee. "Nor need I more thy whine and thee! No time is left my sins to tell; But look ye bind me, bind me well!" They bound him strong with leathern thong, For the ride to the lady should be long. Day was dying; the poplars fled, Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of hell. All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. (Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.) "Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine! Only of thee, of thee, my need! Only to thee, to thee, I speed!" The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.