The Road of Make-Believe

                                  I

She sits upon a rock along the stream

     That heard the whisper of her first Desire,

Washing the faded garment of her Dream,

     Which she had often carried to the Dyer—

     The Dream of her self-centred lyric fire.

And in the flowing, scarlet wounds of Twilight,

     Expiring on Aurora’s drooping wings

Beneath the secret scimitar of Night,

     She dyes again her garment, while she sings

     Of new-born love, though to self-love she clings.

                                 II

He seeks the path of glory in the noon

     Of self-intoxication, dreaming still

Of power,—wondering why the sun and moon

     Are not yoked to the chariot of his will.

     His soul, a clinging vine, his mind, an ill,

He beats against the peaks of earth-bound dreams,

     Subsisting on the thistles of his heart,

But ever seeking, in the fitful gleams

     Of his own fire, self-admiration’s mart

     To mend his horn or whet his venomed dart.

                                 III

They walk together in the golden vast

     Of vision-haunted, soul-alluring sands,

Beholding the illusions of the past

     Among the ruins of deserted lands:—

     Together, although neither understands

The groping purpose of the other; and yet,

     While in their hearts the gods of conflict nod,

They gloze and smile, dissembling their regret:

     Love, on the Road of Make-Believe, they prod, 

     He going to the dogs and she, to God.