And the wind that steals from the Western wave,
They watch the ways where my wild wings are;
They murmur and marvel what I crave.

Passing, passing--ah! passion glow;
But you cannot light me a lasting flame,
By which I may linger, linger and know
My spark and yours from one furnace came.
You whisper and weep, and your words are tears,
And your tears are words I remember yet;
But the flame dies down with the dying years,
And nothing lives that forgets to forget.

Passing, passing--ah! whither? Why?
Does the heart know why? Can the soul say where?
I pass, but I pause to catch ev'ry cry,
To watch ev'ry face, be it foul or fair.
I must hear all the notes of the nightingales--
Do they sing to a God or to graven things--
And not till the last faint flute-note fails
Will I stay my flight, will I fold my wings.

When the last chord died away, Mrs. Windsor's voice was heard saying--

"I remember now, it made me cry. How dismal it is."

"Yes," said Madame Valtesi, "as dismal as a wet Derby or a day at the
seaside. I hope your anthem will be more lively, Lord Reggie. But of
course it will. We always keep our sorrows for the drawing-room, and our
chirpiness for church. For sheer godless merriment commend me to the
grand chant. It always reminds me of the conspirators' chorus in the
'Huguenots.' I used to hear it as a child. One hears so many things as a
child, doesn't one? Childhood is one long career of innocent
eavesdropping, of hearing what one ought not to hear."

"Yes," said Esme, getting up from the piano. "And maturity is one long
career of saying what one ought not to say. That is the art of
conversation. Only one must always say it with intention, otherwise
people think one grossly improper. Intention is everything. Artless
impropriety is quite played out. Yvette Guilbert gave it its death-blow.
It only lingers now in the writings of Ouida and the poems of Arthur
Symonds. Why are minor poets so artless, and why do they fancy they are
so wicked? What curious fancies even unintelligent people have. No minor
poet has ever been wicked, just as no real artist has ever been good. If
one intends to be good, one must take it up as a profession. It is quite
the most engrossing one in the world. Have you ever been with a good
person who is taking a holiday from being good? It is like falling into
the Maelstrom. They carry you o