The light of evening， Lissadell，

    Great windows open to the south，

    Two girls in silk kimonos， both

    Beautiful， one a gazelle.

    But a raving autumn shears

    Blossom from the summer‘s wreath；

    The older is condemned to death，

    Pardoned， drags out lonely years

    Conspiring among the ignorant.

    I know not what the younger dreams—

    Some vague Utopia—and she seems，

    When withered old and skeleton-gaunt，

    An image of such politics.

    Many a time I think to seek

    One or the other out and speak

    Of that old Georgian mansion， mix

    Pictures of the mind， recall

    That table and the talk of youth，

    Two girls in silk kimonos， both

    Beautiful， one a gazelle.

    Dear shadows， now you know it all，

    All the folly of a fight

    With a common wrong or right.

    The innocent and the beautiful

    Have no enemy but time；

    Arise and bid me strike a match

    And strike another till time catch；

    Should the conflagration climb，

    Run till all the sages know.

    We the great gazebo built，

    They convicted us of guilt；

    Bid me strike a match and blow.