Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/Waiting at the Party

by Sarah Piatt

WAITING AT THE PARTY.

The lamp-flowers wreathe the walls below,
 And drop their tremulous golden bloom
On gem and smile—and I must go
 From this dim, lonesome room.

It is not long;—but oh, it seems,
 Since those bright girls went down the stair
I've crossed a thousand years of dreams,
 And landed everywhere.

In tropic palms I've caught strange birds
 With summer painted on their plumes;
I've feigned the south wind's music-words
 To woo his wild-rose blooms.

I've watched great mirage-buds break through
 Their sand-leaves in red desert-noons;
And gathered pearly bells and blue
 By pallid northern moons.

Yet most I've seen a lily-band
 Of buried visions I should know
Rise from that misty fairy land
 We call the Long Ago.

These wear death's snow-calms in their breasts,
 Like great, white flowers—and linger near:
O, beautiful—oh pale, still guests!
 Who did invite you here?

. . . Once more I hear the music start
 And murmur through its veil of light,
And the deep fountains of my heart
 Are broken up to-night.

. . . But—you are waiting at the door,
 With half a frown and half a smile,
Thinking, no doubt, I've stayed before
 The mirror all this while.

And, as your delicate fingers twine
 Unrestful through your curls of brown,
You lift your dark, cold eyes to mine,
 And ask: "Shall we go down?"

Yes, if you will. A funeral chime,
 You say, is in my voice. 'Tis true.
What have I thought of all this time?
 Ah, sir, I have not thought of—you!