Olga
Voluptuary's—that in this secret court
These must be judged and sentenced, ere they know,
By just inexorable judges—Yes—
'Tis war, and we must strike.
Olga.Strike? . . . whom? and how?
Dim. Child, are the little daily innocent pleasures
That flutter round thee like spring-butterflies,
As thy youth blooms more fully from the bud,
Enough for thee as (for) others? Morn by morn
To rise and meet thy beauty in the glass
While thy deft handmaid smooths thy raiment out,
To choose rich hangings for thy sumptuous nest,
And pictures to salute thy waking eyes;
To crown vase after vase with miracles
Of bloom—those nurslings of such warmth and light
As never bless the cradles of the poor;
Then to choose silks and laces for the ball,
And wait the crowd of sauntering worshippers,
Murmuring their brainless nothings round thy chair;
And last accept some rich, luxurious lord
To be the life-long master of thine hours,
With half a heart for thee, and scarce a thought—
More gravely trifling in thy married chain
Than in thy days of dancing vacancy—
But trifling still, though crowned with motherhood,
A harmless and a graceful happiness,
Midst all the finer courtesies of home,
These must be judged and sentenced, ere they know,
By just inexorable judges—Yes—
'Tis war, and we must strike.
Olga.Strike? . . . whom? and how?
Dim. Child, are the little daily innocent pleasures
That flutter round thee like spring-butterflies,
As thy youth blooms more fully from the bud,
Enough for thee as (for) others? Morn by morn
To rise and meet thy beauty in the glass
While thy deft handmaid smooths thy raiment out,
To choose rich hangings for thy sumptuous nest,
And pictures to salute thy waking eyes;
To crown vase after vase with miracles
Of bloom—those nurslings of such warmth and light
As never bless the cradles of the poor;
Then to choose silks and laces for the ball,
And wait the crowd of sauntering worshippers,
Murmuring their brainless nothings round thy chair;
And last accept some rich, luxurious lord
To be the life-long master of thine hours,
With half a heart for thee, and scarce a thought—
More gravely trifling in thy married chain
Than in thy days of dancing vacancy—
But trifling still, though crowned with motherhood,
A harmless and a graceful happiness,
Midst all the finer courtesies of home,
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