14 INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE

The world’s a stage?—Well, faith! it may have seemed so In days less bleak, when Arden’s brakes were green, And Rosalind’s low insolent fond laughter Woke mirth to charm that planet which to-day Seems all one vast decorous hospital,— Germless, immaculate, well-ventilated, Whitewashed, and odorful with antiseptics. And we that toss upon the softest beds, While yet our fever lasts, are impotent Beneath this dreary burden of right angles And blank white walls. And so, we twist, and murmur, And groan, and twitch the coverlets awry, Which Mrs. Grundy, head-nurse of our ward, Pats straight again, in curtseying to the doctor. Lean Dr. Death, who never lost a case, Comes thus; and daily pauses by one’s bed; Fingers the pulse; declares the fever abating; Writes a prescription for the apothecary, Old Time; then cuts a jest or so,—departing With dubious promises of one’s discharge Next year, next month, next week, may be. Ha, neighbor, Slim pale-haired woman with opal-colored eyes, Why bide his pleasure? Nay, let us steal out Together, and—blithe mariners faring forth On chartless seas,—seek out a vessel bound For some politer port, made point-device By Fragonard, Watteau, or whom you will So the contriver of this hospital Be not the architect. Oh, dimly gleams Our haven; for its ways are vaporous With smouldering incense, mid whose loitering spirals Frail cupids weave, eternally, long garlands Of ribbons and pale roses,—weave unvexed By any garish sunlight, since one star Alone peeps out of heaven. See, the moon Shows like a silver sickle to the west, But casts no shadows yet; and twilight dims All glow of color where resistless gallants, Sleek abbés, and false subtle lovely women Pass to the sound of tinkling mandolines And hushed contralto laughter. We will make Rondeaux of life and triolets of death; And be at peace; and never laugh aloud; And grieve not though he mar those stately hedges Wherethrough he leers—gaunt sensual Pierrot!— To note the ankles of young Columbine. Yes, we will smile to see her pirouette With Harlequin in shadowed avenues,— Yew-shadowed statue-haunted avenues, Where pensive gods incuriously remember Put-off omnipotence,—with Harlequin While tricked Pierrot sings at her father’s window.... Smile, it may be, but never laugh aloud. And in the autumn Columbine will die, And Harlequin be sad a whole half-hour. But Pierrot’s heart will break; and he will grieve That so much earth lies heavily on her Who trod the earth so lightly!—and will weep Big facile tears, and babble to the moon. Will you not go?—Then come. Give me your hand,— That firm small slender hand. Tread quietly, For Mrs. Grundy nods now, who will wake Full-cry when all our fellow-patients chatter And drone and bustle like fat surfeited flies Round our dead reputations. Let us go.