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Title: The Game
Author: Olive Tilford Dargan [
More Titles by Dargan]
'Tis played with eyes; one uttered word
Would cast the game away.
As silent as a sailing bird,
The shift and change of play.
So many eyes to me are dear,
So many do me bless;
The hazel, deep as deep wood-mere
Where leaves are flutterless;
The brown that most bewildereth
With dusking, golden play
Of shadows like betraying breath
From some shy, hidden day;
The black whose torch is ever trimmed,
Let stars be soon or late;
The blue, a morning never dimmed,
Opposing Heaven to fate;
The grey as soft as farthest skies
That hold horizon rain;
Or when, steel-darkling, stoic-wise,
They bring the gods again;
And wavelit eyes of nameless glow,
Fed from far-risen streams;
But oh, the eyes, the eyes that know
The silent game of dreams!
Three times I've played. Once 'twas a child,
Lap-held, not half a year
From Heaven, looked at me and smiled,
And far I went with her.
Out past the twilight gates of birth,
And past Time's blindfold day,
Beyond the star-ring of the earth,
We found us room to play.
And once a woman, spent and old
With unavailing tears,
Who from her hair's down-tangled fold
Shook out the grey-blown years,
Sat by the trampled way alone,
And lifted eyes--what themes!
I could not pass, I sat me down
To play the game of dreams.
And once ... a poet's eyes they were,
Though earth heard not his strain;
And since he went no eyes can stir
My own to play again.
[The end]
Olive Tilford Dargan's poem: Game
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