On the stage an acted horror,
A king crime-haunted to death;
Around me glitter and glare,
And fans that harry an air
That stifles me breath by breath;
And eyes all one way gazing
On the magical master-player,
Whose face, chameleon-wise,
Reflects all moods that arise, —
Craft, crime, and credulous prayer.
I gaze, and listen — but sudden
I dream in midst of the play;
And the king may threaten or whine,
It seems no matter of mine, —
I am twenty miles away.
Down in a mossy dingle,
Where sinless, a stranger to pain,
And friend to all winds that blow,
And hearing the fresh herbs grow,
And feeling the dew or the rain,
A slight wind-flower is hiding,
Green-scarfed, white-faced as the snow;
The young year's earliest child,
That I found last morn growing wild,
And spoke with, and left it to grow.
