The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, With a Memoir by Arthur SymonsDowson, Ernest Christopher
General
The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, With a Memoir by Arthur Symons
Dowson, Ernest Christopher
Authors, English; English poetry
THE LADY
Now is this to the point?
PIERROT
Prithee, forbear! Such is the game design.
THE LADY
Here is my hand.
PIERROT
I cover it with mine.
THE LADY
What must I next?
[_They play._]
PIERROT
Withdraw.
THE LADY
It goes too fast.
[_They continue playing, until Pierrot catches her hand._]
PIERROT [_Laughing._]
'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last.
[_He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the stage;
she eludes him._]
THE LADY
Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch
A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch.
PIERROT [_Sitting down sulkily._]
I grow aweary, and my heart is sore,
Thou dost not love me; I will play no more.
[_He buries his face in his hands: the lady stands over him._]
THE LADY
What is this petulance?
PIERROT
'Tis quick to tell--
Thou hast but mocked me.
THE LADY
Nay, I love thee well!
PIERROT
Repeat those words, for still within my breast
A whisper warns me they are said in jest.
THE LADY
I jested not: at daybreak I must go,
Yet loving thee far better than thou know.
PIERROT
Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine,
Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine!
The Gods have wedded mortals long ere this.
THE LADY
There was enough betrothal in my kiss.
What need of further oaths?
PIERROT
That bound not thee!
THE LADY
Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be.
But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale
With some moon fancy or celestial tale.
PIERROT
Tell me of thee, and that dim, happy place
Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race!
THE LADY [_Seating herself._]
Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air
For mortal's breath is too refined and rare;
Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears
Its dome of agate through a myriad years.
A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone,
Each one carved strangely from a precious stone.
Within the fairest, clad in purity,
Our mother dwelleth immemorially:
Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown
The floor she treads with little pearls is sown;
She sits upon a throne of amethysts,
And orders mortal fortunes as she lists;
I, and my sisters, all around her stand,
And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand.
PIERROT
Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain
With shrivelled fingers spun this web of bane!
THE LADY
Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart,
Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart,
And dreamers all, and all who sing and love,
Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve.
PIERROT
Me, even me, she hath led into this grove.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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