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 [sic] 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?