Thalia

The Sisters' Tragedy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING

FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS
BROUGHT HIM HIS
HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS
ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD
HAIR
FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK:

I say it under the rose--
        oh,
thanks!--yes, under the laurel,
We part lovers, not foes;

        we are not going to quarrel.

We have too long been friends
        on
foot and in gilded coaches,
Now that the whole thing ends,

        to spoil our kiss with reproaches.

I leave you; my soul is wrung;
        I
pause, look back from the portal--
Ah, I no more am young,

        and you, child, you are immortal!

Mine is the glacier's way,
        yours
is the blossom's weather--
When were December and May
 
      known to be happy together?

Before my kisses grow tame,
       
before my moodiness grieve you,
While yet my heart is flame,

        and I all lover, I leave you.

So, in the coming time,
        when you
count the rich years over,
Think of me in my prime,
 
      and not as a white-haired lover,

Fretful, pierced with regret,
       
the wraith of a dead Desire
Thrumming a cracked spinet
 
      by a slowly dying fire.

When, at last, I am cold--
        years
hence, if the gods so will it--
Say, "He was true as gold,"

        and wear a rose in your fillet!

Others, tender as I,
        will come
and sue for caresses,
Woo you, win you, and die--
 
      mind you, a rose in your tresses!

Some Melpomene woo,
        some hold
Clio the nearest;
You, sweet Comedy--you
     
  were ever sweetest and dearest!

Nay, it is time to go--
        when
writing your tragic sister
Say to that child of woe
 
      how sorry I was I missed her.

Really, I cannot stay,
        though
"parting is such sweet sorrow" . . .
Perhaps I will, on my
way
        down-town, look in to-morrow!