Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/Waiting at the Party
WAITING AT THE PARTY.
The lamp-flowers wreathe the walls below, And drop their tremulous golden bloomOn gem and smile—and I must go From this dim, lonesome room.
It is not long;—but oh, it seems, Since those bright girls went down the stairI've crossed a thousand years of dreams, And landed everywhere.
In tropic palms I've caught strange birds With summer painted on their plumes;I've feigned the south wind's music-words To woo his wild-rose blooms.
I've watched great mirage-buds break through Their sand-leaves in red desert-noons;And gathered pearly bells and blue By pallid northern moons.
Yet most I've seen a lily-band Of buried visions I should knowRise from that misty fairy land We call the Long Ago.
These wear death's snow-calms in their breasts, Like great, white flowers—and linger near:O, beautiful—oh pale, still guests! Who did invite you here?
. . . Once more I hear the music start And murmur through its veil of light,And the deep fountains of my heart Are broken up to-night.
. . . But—you are waiting at the door, With half a frown and half a smile,Thinking, no doubt, I've stayed before The mirror all this while.
And, as your delicate fingers twine Unrestful through your curls of brown,You lift your dark, cold eyes to mine, And ask: "Shall we go down?"
Yes, if you will. A funeral chime, You say, is in my voice. 'Tis true.What have I thought of all this time? Ah, sir, I have not thought of—you!