In tolerable stillness
Rose one little, little star,
And it chuckled at my illness,
And it mocked me from afar;
And its brethren came and eyed me,
Called the Universe to aid,
Till I lay, with naught to hide me,
'Neath the Scorn of All Things Made.

Dun and saffron, robed and splendid,
Broke the solemn, pitying Day,
And I knew my pains were ended,
And I turned and tried to pray;
But my speech was shattered wholly,
And I wept as children weep.

Till the dawn-wind, softly, slowly,
Brought to burning eyelids sleep.


MY RIVAL

I go to concert, party, ball--
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.

The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;