when thou hast taken thy last applause, and when

the final curtain strikes the world away,

leaving to shadowy silence and dismay

that stage which shall not know thy smile again,

lingering a little while i see thee then

ponder the tinsel part they let thee play;

i see the large lips livid, the face grey,

and silent smileless eyes of Magdalen.

The lights have laughed their last; without, the street

darkling awaiteth her whose feet have trod

the silly souls of men to golden dust:

she pauses on the lintel of defeat,

her heart breaks in a smile—and she is Lust . . . .

mine also, little painted poem of god