I listen and hear the chime Go quavering over the town, And out of this flower of Time Twelve petals are wafted down.
Listen to the tawny thief, Hid beneath the waxen leaf, Growling at his fairy host, Bidding her with angry boast Fill his cup with wine distilled From the dew the dawn has spilled: Stored away in golden casks Is the precious draught he asks.
Who,—who makes this mimic din In this mimic meadow inn, Sings in such a drowsy note, Wears a golden-belted coat; Loiters in the dainty room Of this tavern of perfume; Dares to linger at the cup Till the yellow sun is up?
Bacchus ’tis, come back again To the busy haunts of men; Garlanded and gaily dressed, Bands of gold about his breast; Straying from his paradise, Having pinions angel-wise,— ’Tis the honey-bee, who goes Reveling within a rose!
Upon the walls the graceful Ivy climbs And wraps with green the ancient ruin gray: Romance it is, and these her leafy rhymes Writ on the granite page of yesterday.
Out of the scabbard of the night By God’s hand drawn, Flashes his shining sword of light, And lo—the dawn!
Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman was born at Hartford, Connecticut, July 3, 1860. She began public work in 1890, lecturing on ethics, economics and sociology; identifying herself with the labor question and the advance of women.
She has written about a dozen books, her best works being _Woman and Economics_ (1898) and _Human Work_ (1904). Her volume of verse, _In This Our World_ (1898), hurls many a shaft of ironic wit. Beneath the whimsical humor of “A Conservative” and the better known “Similar Cases” (unfortunately too long to quote) there is a sub-acid satire not easily forgotten.
The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly, A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson butterfly All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise. While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, “What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore? With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store,”— But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar.
Cried he, “My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm! Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view— Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!”