The Sun-Dial

’t Is an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb. And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak,—a worn and shattered row: I am a Shade; a Shadowe too art thou: I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune,— Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. O’er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; There came a second lady to the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale,— An inner beauty shining from her face. She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book,— Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true,— Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound, And argued loving commerce ’twixt the two,— She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; And ’twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; Then came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head. Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; So kindly fronted that you marvelled how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note;—held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; Laughed softly in a flattered, happy way, Arranged the broidered baldrick on his crest, And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.* * * * * The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot,—the record of a tear.