Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/"A Letter from To-morrow"
< Poems (Piatt) | Volume 1
"A LETTER FROM TO-MORROW."[THE WORDS OF A CHILD.]
The child stood sweet and shy:
"Now listen,—do not cry:
'A Letter from To-morrow———" he piteously said;
Then wavered, frowned, and blushed,
And looked away and hushed
The elfin voice that spoke through lips of human red.
"Now listen,—do not cry:
'A Letter from To-morrow———" he piteously said;
Then wavered, frowned, and blushed,
And looked away and hushed
The elfin voice that spoke through lips of human red.
"I cannot read the rest,"
He prettily confessed,
"Because—it is not plain!" Ah, would I hear it read?
Poor little hands, to hold
A thing so dim and cold,
So full of sad shorn hair and last words of the dead!
He prettily confessed,
"Because—it is not plain!" Ah, would I hear it read?
Poor little hands, to hold
A thing so dim and cold,
So full of sad shorn hair and last words of the dead!
Let it go where it will,
There must be news of ill
Send it to that great house across the shining street:—
To-night, in lights and lace,
There Madam holds her place,
Brief as the foreign flowers that drop dead at her feet.
There must be news of ill
Send it to that great house across the shining street:—
To-night, in lights and lace,
There Madam holds her place,
Brief as the foreign flowers that drop dead at her feet.
Madonna-hair and eyes
Remind one of the skies,
(No other picture there more subtly hides its paint).
Divinely of the earth!—
That last dear dress from Worth
Is too Parisian, perhaps, to fit-a saint.
Remind one of the skies,
(No other picture there more subtly hides its paint).
Divinely of the earth!—
That last dear dress from Worth
Is too Parisian, perhaps, to fit-a saint.
This Letter's shadowy date,
"To-morrow," folds her fate—
(Reach for it, eager arm, so beautiful and bare!)
She reads: "Your hair is grey,
And men forget the day—
Can you remember it—the day when you were fair!'
"To-morrow," folds her fate—
(Reach for it, eager arm, so beautiful and bare!)
She reads: "Your hair is grey,
And men forget the day—
Can you remember it—the day when you were fair!'
He reads—her stately lord,
Out-glittering some chance sword,
Or right new gold, perhaps, wherewith his name was made:
"Taken as in a snare!—
Called by a bird of the air
To justice, go and give and take it, O betrayed!"
Out-glittering some chance sword,
Or right new gold, perhaps, wherewith his name was made:
"Taken as in a snare!—
Called by a bird of the air
To justice, go and give and take it, O betrayed!"
Still keep the Letter there:—
His boy, the gracious heir
To beauty, love, and hope—a brave enough estate,—
Lets fall his toys and reads,
"Wounded to death!" and heeds.
A coffin for white flowers stands ready at the gate.
His boy, the gracious heir
To beauty, love, and hope—a brave enough estate,—
Lets fall his toys and reads,
"Wounded to death!" and heeds.
A coffin for white flowers stands ready at the gate.
Give her the Letter—see
How fairy-sweet is she,
His girl in her first youth! She droops her flowerlike head,
To read—no charméd tale
Of bridal buds and veil;
But finds a broken ring and leave to earn her bread.
How fairy-sweet is she,
His girl in her first youth! She droops her flowerlike head,
To read—no charméd tale
Of bridal buds and veil;
But finds a broken ring and leave to earn her bread.
Take, now, the Letter where
There 's music in the air,
And let the poet read: "The worm likes well your book."
Painter, if you are he,
Master that is to be,
Your name is not in all this Letter,—only look!
There 's music in the air,
And let the poet read: "The worm likes well your book."
Painter, if you are he,
Master that is to be,
Your name is not in all this Letter,—only look!
Some scented page will bring
This Letter to the king;
To-morrow will he smooth with him and loyal-sweet:
"Your throne is shaken, sire—
Your palace lost in fire;
Your prince must hide with sand the far tracks of his feet!"
This Letter to the king;
To-morrow will he smooth with him and loyal-sweet:
"Your throne is shaken, sire—
Your palace lost in fire;
Your prince must hide with sand the far tracks of his feet!"
Shut close your Letter, child.
The wind is weird and wild—
I give it to the wind to bury in the sea,
Full fathom five, and pray
That till the Judgment Day
No fisherman may bring such treasure up to me!
The wind is weird and wild—
I give it to the wind to bury in the sea,
Full fathom five, and pray
That till the Judgment Day
No fisherman may bring such treasure up to me!