Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/327

How well I recall
The rows that went on in this very hall
Before, struggling into a gorgeous, amber gown,
I went storming upon the stage
In actual rage.
Night after night I snarled my egg-begotten hate
At all the cast, meager and great,
And took my curtains like a fiend, I fear.
My pearls, but I was popular that year!
How hot it grows,
Suppose
I were to faint?
And when I think of all that careful paint
Expended on my face! Anathema and rue,
'Twill never do!
Truth to tell, I'm growing much too old
To bear the molten gold
Of Bébé's chords. Silence, heart!
He plays this part
Without support. May heaven give me strength
To bear the length
Of that slim, upward-streaming bow.
Better, you know,
To listen sharply with the brain
Avoiding pain
Then lend the soul to such debauchery.
Bébé's cadenzas are so apt to be
Whirlpools of enchantment. La!
He goes a little mad, and that is well, n'est-ce-pas?
Alas, Marie, how I must envy you your calm;
Palm to palm a
I struggle for complacency. Eh, vu!
I look at you:
Lovely woman, lovelier plaster saint,
And make no complaint.
The night you came to me
I pedged you to a great career.
Polor, beautiful Marie;
Year after year
I fought to mold you to the stature of a dream.
Perhaps they seem
A little like a nightmare—all those years?