Page:Late lyrics and earlier, with many other verses (IA latelyricsearlie00hardiala).pdf/184

A bottle blue-coloured and fluted—a vinaigrette, they may conceive—
And before the choir measures my meaning, reads aught in my moves to and fro,
I drink from the phial at a draught, and they think it a pick-me-up; so.
Then I gather my books as to leave, bend over the keys as to pray.
When they come to me motionless, stooping, quick death will have whisked me away.

"Sure, nobody meant her to poison herself in her haste, after all!"
The deacons will say as they carry me down and the night shadows fall,
"Though the charges were true," they will add. "It's a case red as scarlet withal!"
I have never once minced it. Lived chaste I have not. Heaven knows it above! . . .
But past all the heavings of passion—it's music has been my life-love! . . .
That tune did go well—this last playing! . . . I reckon they'll bury me here. . . .
Not a soul from the seaport my birthplace—will come, or bestow me . . . a tear.