Piteous and pleading with a hurt surprise

That we who live will never turn a head

To speak them any answer, or to hark

The pregnant whispered wisdom of the Dead,

The futile finger pointed in the Dark.

[50]

[50]

THE DANCE

When we had gone from out the blazing room,

Into the cool and leafy dark, at last,

And found a sweetness in the summer gloom,

A holy quiet on the ways we passed,—

We turned, with only half-regretful glance

At silhouettes beyond that square of light,—

Content to leave the laughter and the dance,

For green, cool chambers of the summer night.

I think that we shall not be otherwise,

When we have quit all rooms where once we went,—

But gazing back with grave, untroubled eyes,

Shall find ourselves so quietly content,

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