AVIS (indifferently)
"I shall marry Stavordale."
LORD ALFRED
"What an icicle you have been to me! You never cared."
AVIS (passionately)
"You are hideously cruel. I loved—I love you. But your mother is right—she has saved her son. Yes, coward that you are, I loved you! I could have ruined your peace and Molly's, I could have dragged you after me, for you are weak enough to abandon her."
LORD ALFRED (seizing her hand)
"Avis!"
Avis (drawing it away)
"Leave me! Your mother kissed me. She has my promise; I am her guest; I will not betray her. Go!"
LORD ALFRED
"She is a good mother, but"
AVIS
"No—a wise one, which is better."
LORD ALFRED
"You are right, Avis; I have been a coward to you."
AVIS
"Good-bye! You will soon be consoled; yours is a light nature. Good-bye, dear!" (Leaves him without a backward glance. Lord Alfred sits down on a bench and weeps.)
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THE POPPIES
THEY rode into battle at break of the day,
With sashes and sabres and gonfalons gay,
The clashing of harness, the flashing of steel,
The beat of the drum and the trumpet's loud peal.
Not a heart nor an eye but was merry and bright,
And the poppies were white.
All crumpled and silken and snowy they grew
In a tangle of grasses, starred over with dew.
But the wheels of the cannon above them were rolled,
The hoofs of the horses struck deep in the mould,
And trampled and tattered at fall of the night
Were the poppies of white.
They lay in the meadow distilling their sleep,
Till the soldiers were wrapped in a slumber so deep
That the call of the bugle would never unclose
To visions of glory their lids of repose.
The mist drew a veil o'er the brows of the dead,
And the poppies were red.
Both scabbards and sabres have crumbled to dust,
And roses have bloomed from the bayonet's rust,
But unbleached by the sun, and uncleansed by the rain,
The crimson of blood must forever remain
On the blossoms that over the battlefield spread,
For the poppies are red.
