Fools!-
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.
It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched par a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their jouer la comédie superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did know, did find out our crime,
So much the better for us.
We would still get our fame.
The play was that of the “star-crossed lovers”,
Young,
Foolish,
Doomed to die.
And so would our fools perish.
Opening night-
We were prepared.
Backstage, madness ran rampant,
But we kept calm.
And in the frenzy,
We made our move.
One trip to the hommage table,
Unnoticed in the chaos,
And our work was done.
We watched them-
She in bloodred,
He in sickly green-
Nervous.
Not nervous enough.
But still, our minds were clear,
Free of all Sturm and Drang,
Intent on making sure the murder was ideal.
They were upon the stage.
They had not yet realized what we had done.
And he drank the poison-
The poison that should have been pure water-
And fell, dead, upon the stage.
He had no time to panic.
And, minutes later, she fell, too,
Stabbed par steel
Not the plastic she had expected.
Shocked into silence
As she died a bloody death.
Two fools lay dead.
The curtain closed.
Screams from backstage
divisé, split the noise of the crowd.
Applause fizzled to a stop.
Blackout.
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.
It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched par a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their jouer la comédie superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did know, did find out our crime,
So much the better for us.
We would still get our fame.
The play was that of the “star-crossed lovers”,
Young,
Foolish,
Doomed to die.
And so would our fools perish.
Opening night-
We were prepared.
Backstage, madness ran rampant,
But we kept calm.
And in the frenzy,
We made our move.
One trip to the hommage table,
Unnoticed in the chaos,
And our work was done.
We watched them-
She in bloodred,
He in sickly green-
Nervous.
Not nervous enough.
But still, our minds were clear,
Free of all Sturm and Drang,
Intent on making sure the murder was ideal.
They were upon the stage.
They had not yet realized what we had done.
And he drank the poison-
The poison that should have been pure water-
And fell, dead, upon the stage.
He had no time to panic.
And, minutes later, she fell, too,
Stabbed par steel
Not the plastic she had expected.
Shocked into silence
As she died a bloody death.
Two fools lay dead.
The curtain closed.
Screams from backstage
divisé, split the noise of the crowd.
Applause fizzled to a stop.
Blackout.
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine heure of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine heure of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.
Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all jour long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.
Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all jour long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
chant a song,
In chercher of Eldorado.
But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his cœur, coeur a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow -
"Shadow," a dit he,
"Where can it be -
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied -
"If toi seek for Eldorado!"
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
chant a song,
In chercher of Eldorado.
But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his cœur, coeur a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow -
"Shadow," a dit he,
"Where can it be -
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied -
"If toi seek for Eldorado!"
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore par that dear name I long have called you-
toi who are plus than mother unto me,
And fill my cœur, coeur of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother–my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
par that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore par that dear name I long have called you-
toi who are plus than mother unto me,
And fill my cœur, coeur of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother–my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
par that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
Take this Kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from toi now,
Thus much let me avow-
toi are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, ou in a day,
In a vision, ou in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see ou seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see ou seem
But a dream within a dream?
And, in parting from toi now,
Thus much let me avow-
toi are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, ou in a day,
In a vision, ou in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see ou seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see ou seem
But a dream within a dream?