AmyLowell:AFairyTale

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            AmyLowell:AFairyTale

            On winter nights beside the nursery fire

            We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals

            Builded its pictures. There before our eyes

            We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone

            Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung

            With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;

            And all along the walls at intervals,

            Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,

            And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves

            Divided where there peered a laughing face.

            The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,

            A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.

            High pointed windows pierced the southern wall

            Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires

            To stain the tessellated marble floor

            With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;

            And in the shade beyond the further door,

            Its sober squares of black and white were hid

            Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob

            Of lackeys and retainers come to view

            The Christening.

            A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng

            About the entrance parted as the guests

            Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.

            Our eager fancies noted all they brought,

            The glorious, unattainable delights!

            But always there was one unbidden guest

            Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.

            The fire falls asunder, all is changed,

            I am no more a child, and what I see

            Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.

            The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:

            Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name

            Which honors all who bear it, and the power

            Of making words obedient. This is much;

            But overshadowing all is still the curse,

            That never shall I be fulfilled by love!

            Along the parching highroad of the world

            No other soul shall bear mine company.

            Always shall I be teased with semblances,

            With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile

            Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy

            Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering

            Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.

            So I behold my visions on the ground

            No longer radiant, an ignoble heap

            Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,

            Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps

            Force me forever through the passing days.

            On winter nights beside the nursery fire

            We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals

            Builded its pictures. There before our eyes

            We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone

            Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung

            With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;

            And all along the walls at intervals,

            Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,

            And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves

            Divided where there peered a laughing face.

            The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,

            A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.

            High pointed windows pierced the southern wall

            Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires

            To stain the tessellated marble floor

            With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;

            And in the shade beyond the further door,

            Its sober squares of black and white were hid

            Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob

            Of lackeys and retainers come to view

            The Christening.

            A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng

            About the entrance parted as the guests

            Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.

            Our eager fancies noted all they brought,

            The glorious, unattainable delights!

            But always there was one unbidden guest

            Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.

            The fire falls asunder, all is changed,

            I am no more a child, and what I see

            Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.

            The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:

            Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name

            Which honors all who bear it, and the power

            Of making words obedient. This is much;

            But overshadowing all is still the curse,

            That never shall I be fulfilled by love!

            Along the parching highroad of the world

            No other soul shall bear mine company.

            Always shall I be teased with semblances,

            With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile

            Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy

            Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering

            Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.

            So I behold my visions on the ground

            No longer radiant, an ignoble heap

            Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,

            Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps

            Force me forever through the passing days.

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