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.