67 LOVE GOES INTO WINTER QUARTERS

(The Scene a dale, somewhere in Arcady, But filled with snow and sleet, made horrible By many tramplings; there anon must be A Crier, robed in black and with a bell; To whom a Poet, peering curiously.) “What are thou calling, small sombre Crier?— Who seeks what fugitive? who is beguiled? Is it a theft or a house to hire, A sheriff’s sale or a stolen child?” For none of these do I play the crier. And toll a reward where the winds are wild, And I strive knee-deep in the sleet and the mire In quest of a kingdom undefiled. “Reward, quoth he!—and how darest thou prattle Of guerdon-giving, that goest in black, Sans cap and sandals, where bleak winds battle Which first may strip the rags from thy back?” Of no compulsion save my own pleasure’s I wear this black—for a mourning sign,— Till Yesterday waken, and yield the treasures And gold-wrought garments which once were mine. “Faith, only a madman dreams to muster The bygone hours, bid them live again ... Though Crœsus wheedle or Charlemaigne bluster, Time heeds not at all, and they strive in vain.” Nay, Time forgets them; for these—unlanded, Unkinged, uncarnate, and cold,—lie hid Where Time comes never, to be commanded;— Time cannot hear through the coffin’s lid. “So it matters naught with what pomp they wended, What queens they wed, and what realms they won! These things were goodly; these things are ended; And naught sleeps sounder than joy fordone.” Cry Absit omen! the sermon is stupid— Hey, even of sermons I grow afraid, Who am no madman, but outlawed Cupid, With never a place to lay my head. But Yesterday! for Yesterday! I cry a reward for a Yesterday Now lost or stolen or gone astray, With all the laughter of Yesterday! (FOR WE HAVE MADE AN END OF AMOROUS PLAYING, AND SHALLOW-HEARTED LOVE IS TURNED ASTRAY, WITH CHILDISH SORROWING AND WEAK-VOICED PRAYING FOR YESTERDAY.)