The light of evening, Lissadell,  
Great windows open to the south,  
Two girls in silk kimonos, both  
Beautiful, one a gazelle. 
But a raving autumn shears 
Blossom from the summer's wreath;  
The older is condemned to death,  
Pardoned, drags out lonely years  
Conspiring among the ignorant. 
I know not what the younger dreams -  
Some vague Utopia - and she seems,  
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,  
An image of such politics. 
Many a time I think to seek 
One or the other out and speak 
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix  
pictures of the mind, recall 
That table and the talk of youth, 
Two girls in silk kimonos, both  
Beautiful, one a gazelle. 
 
Dear shadows, now you know it all,  
All the folly of a fight 
With a common wrong or right. 
The innocent and the beautiful. 
Have no enemy but time; 
Arise and bid me strike a match 
And strike another till time catch;  
Should the conflagration climb, 
Run till all the sages know. 
We the great gazebo built, 
They convicted us of guilt; 
Bid me strike a match and blow.


 = George McRae