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Poems

<div class="transnote covernote center vspace">Transcriber’s Note Cover created by Transcriber and placed in the Public Domain.</div> <h1>Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay</h1> <hr /> Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay ❦ London Martin Secker 1923 <hr /> Printed in Great Britain London: Martin Secker (Ltd.) 1923 <hr /> 7 <h2 id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2></div> <table id="toc" summary="Contents"> <tr> <td class="tdc chap" colspan="2">Section One</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Renascence,</td> <td class="tdr">13</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">God’s World,</td> <td class="tdr">22</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Afternoon on a Hill,</td> <td class="tdr">23</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Journey,</td> <td class="tdr">24</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sorrow,</td> <td class="tdr">26</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Tavern,</td> <td class="tdr">27</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Ashes of Life,</td> <td class="tdr">28</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Little Ghost,</td> <td class="tdr">29</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Kin to Sorrow,</td> <td class="tdr">31</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Three Songs of Shattering,</td> <td class="tdr">32</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Shroud,</td> <td class="tdr">34</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Dream,</td> <td class="tdr">35</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Indifference,</td> <td class="tdr">36</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Witch-wife,</td> <td class="tdr">37</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Blight,</td> <td class="tdr">38</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">When the Year Grows Old,</td> <td class="tdr">40</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Unnamed Sonnets, i-v,</td> <td class="tdr">42</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sonnet vi (Bluebeard),</td> <td class="tdr">47</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdc chap" colspan="2">Section Two8</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">I,</td> <td class="tdr">51</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">II,</td> <td class="tdr">51</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Recuerdo,</td> <td class="tdr">52</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Thursday,</td> <td class="tdr">53</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">To the Not Impossible Him,</td> <td class="tdr">54</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Singing-Woman from the Wood’s Edge,</td> <td class="tdr">55</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Humoresque,</td> <td class="tdr">58</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">She is Overheard Singing,</td> <td class="tdr">59</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Unexplorer,</td> <td class="tdr">61</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Grown-up,</td> <td class="tdr">62</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Penitent,</td> <td class="tdr">63</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Daphne,</td> <td class="tdr">64</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Portrait by a Neighbour,</td> <td class="tdr">65</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Merry Maid,</td> <td class="tdr">66</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">To S. M.,</td> <td class="tdr">67</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Philosopher,</td> <td class="tdr">68</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sonnet—Love, Though for This,</td> <td class="tdr">69</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sonnet—I Think I Should Have Loved You,</td> <td class="tdr">70</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sonnet—Oh, Think Not I am Faithful,</td> <td class="tdr">71</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sonnet—I Shall Forget You Presently,</td> <td class="tdr">72</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdc chap" colspan="2">Section Three9</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Spring,</td> <td class="tdr">75</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">City Trees,</td> <td class="tdr">76</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Blue-Flag in the Bog,</td> <td class="tdr">77</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Eel-Grass,</td> <td class="tdr">86</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Elegy before Death,</td> <td class="tdr">87</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Bean-Stalk,</td> <td class="tdr">88</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Weeds,</td> <td class="tdr">90</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Passer Mortuus Est,</td> <td class="tdr">91</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Pastoral,</td> <td class="tdr">92</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Assault,</td> <td class="tdr">93</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Travel,</td> <td class="tdr">94</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Low-Tide,</td> <td class="tdr">95</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Song of a Second April,</td> <td class="tdr">96</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Poet and his Book,</td> <td class="tdr">97</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Alms,</td> <td class="tdr">102</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Inland,</td> <td class="tdr">104</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">To a Poet that Died Young,</td> <td class="tdr">105</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Wraith,</td> <td class="tdr">107</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Ebb,</td> <td class="tdr">109</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Elaine,</td> <td class="tdr">110</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Burial,</td> <td class="tdr">111</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Mariposa,</td> <td class="tdr">11210</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Doubt no more that Oberon,</td> <td class="tdr">113</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Lament,</td> <td class="tdr">114</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Exiled,</td> <td class="tdr">115</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Death of Autumn,</td> <td class="tdr">117</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Ode to Silence,</td> <td class="tdr">118</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Memorial to D. C.,</td> <td class="tdr">127</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Unnamed Sonnets, i-xii,</td> <td class="tdr">134</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Wild Swans,</td> <td class="tdr">146</td></tr> </table> <hr class="wide" /> 13 <h2 id="SECTION_ONE">SECTION ONE</h2></div> <hr class="wide" /> <div id="p_1" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Renascence">Renascence</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I’d started from And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood. Over these things I could not see: These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all. But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I’ll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And—sure enough!—I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I ’most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky. </div> <div class="stanza"> I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold; Whispered to me a word whose sound Deafened the air for worlds around, And brought unmuffled to my ears The gossiping of friendly spheres, The creaking of the tented sky, The ticking of Eternity. I saw and heard and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, And present, and for evermore. The Universe, cleft to the core, Lay open to my probing sense That, sick’ning, I would fain pluck thence But could not,—nay! But needs must suck At the great wound, and could not pluck My lips away till I had drawn All venom out.—Ah, fearful pawn! For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire,— Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each,—then mourned for all! A man was starving in Capri; He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, And knew his hunger as my own. I saw at sea a great fog bank Between two ships that struck and sank; A thousand screams the heavens smote; And every scream tore through my throat. No hurt I did not feel, no death That was not mine; mine each last breath That, crying, met an answering cry From the compassion that was I. All suffering mine, and mine its rod; Mine, pity like the pity of God. Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die. </div> <div class="stanza"> Long had I lain thus, craving death, When quietly the earth beneath Gave way, and inch by inch, so great At last had grown the crushing weight, Into the earth I sank till I Full six feet under ground did lie, And sank no more,—there is no weight Can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust. Deep in the earth I rested now; Cool is its hand upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all The pitying rain began to fall; I lay and heard each pattering hoof Upon my lowly, thatchèd roof, And seemed to love the sound far more Than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound To one who’s six feet under ground; And scarce the friendly voice or face: A grave is such a quiet place. </div> <div class="stanza"> The rain, I said, is kind to come And speak to me in my new home. I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top. How can I bear it, buried here, While overhead the sky grows clear And blue again after the storm? O, multi-coloured, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold, That I shall never more behold! Sleeping your myriad magics through, Close-sepulchred away from you! O God, I cried, give me new birth, And put me back upon the earth! Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd And let the heavy rain, down-poured In one big torrent, set me free, Washing my grave away from me! </div> <div class="stanza"> I ceased; and through the breathless hush That answered me, the far-off rush Of herald wings came whispering Like music down the vibrant string Of my ascending prayer, and—crash! Before the wild wind’s whistling lash The startled storm-clouds reared on high And plunged in terror down the sky, And the big rain in one black wave Fell from the sky and struck my grave. I know not how such things can be; I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things; A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself, And, through and over everything, A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear, Whispering to me I could hear; I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips, Laid gently on my sealèd sight, And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see,— A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,— I know not how such things can be!— I breathed my soul back into me. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound; Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky, Till at my throat a strangling sob Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb Sent instant tears into my eyes; O God, I cried, no dark disguise Can e’er hereafter hide from me Thy radiant identity! Thou canst not move across the grass But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, Nor speak, however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee. I know the path that tells Thy way Through the cool eve of every day; God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart! </div> <div class="stanza"> The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky,— No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That cannot keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat—the sky Will cave in on him by and by. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 22 <div id="p_2" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Gods_World">God’s World</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! </div> <div class="stanza"> Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 23 <div id="p_3" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Afternoon_on_a_Hill">Afternoon on a Hill</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. </div> <div class="stanza"> I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. </div> <div class="stanza"> And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 24 <div id="p_4" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Journey">Journey</h2></div> 25 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me,—I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes. Yet onward! Cat-birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot, And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 26 <div id="p_5" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Sorrow">Sorrow</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain,— Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start. </div> <div class="stanza"> People dress and go to town; I sit in my chair. All my thoughts are slow and brown: Standing up or sitting down Little matters, or what gown Or what shoes I wear. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 27 <div id="p_6" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Tavern">Tavern</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I’ll keep a little tavern Below the high hill’s crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May sit them down and rest. </div> <div class="stanza"> There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill. </div> <div class="stanza"> There sound will sleep the traveller, And dream his journey’s end, But I will rouse at midnight The falling fire to tend. </div> <div class="stanza"> Aye, ’tis a curious fancy— But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes A long time ago. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 28 <div id="p_7" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Ashes_of_Life">Ashes of Life</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will,—and would that night were here! But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again!—with twilight near! </div> <div class="stanza"> Love has gone and left me and I don’t know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through,— There’s little use in anything as far as I can see. </div> <div class="stanza"> Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbours knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,— And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There’s this little street and this little house. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 29 <div id="p_8" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Little_Ghost">The Little Ghost</h2></div> 30 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked. </div> <div class="stanza"> And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone— I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on. </div> <div class="stanza"> By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown’s white folds among. </div> <div class="stanza"> I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do—and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! </div> <div class="stanza"> She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled—there was no hint Of sadness in her face. </div> <div class="stanza"> She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go. </div> <div class="stanza"> And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 31 <div id="p_9" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Kin_to_Sorrow">Kin to Sorrow</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door— Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow’s hand? Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then comes Sorrow— And what does Sorrow care For the rosemary Or the marigolds there? Am I kin to Sorrow? Are we kin? That so oft upon my door— Oh, come in! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 32 <div id="p_10" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Three_Songs_of_Shattering">Three Songs of Shattering</h2></div> <h3>I</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. </div> <div class="stanza"> Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty. </div> </div></div> <h3>II</h3> 33 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so ’tis spring;— But not in the old way! </div> <div class="stanza"> I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you. </div> <div class="stanza"> If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so ’tis spring— But not in the old way! </div> </div></div> <h3>III</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! Ere spring was going—ah! spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,— Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on. </div> <div class="stanza"> All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 34 <div id="p_11" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Shroud">The Shroud</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,—O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! </div> <div class="stanza"> (I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a dress dark as my hair Made my answerings. </div> <div class="stanza"> I, to-night, that till he came Could not, could not wait, In a gown as bright as flame Held for them the gate.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,—O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 35 <div id="p_12" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Dream">The Dream</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Love, if I weep it will not matter, And if you laugh I shall not care; Foolish am I to think about it, But it is good to feel you there. </div> <div class="stanza"> Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,— White and awful the moonlight reached Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere, There was a shutter loose,—it screeched! </div> <div class="stanza"> Swung in the wind,—and no wind blowing!— I was afraid, and turned to you, Put out my hand to you for comfort,— And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew, </div> <div class="stanza"> Under my hand the moonlight lay! Love, if you laugh I shall not care, But if I weep it will not matter,— Ah, it is good to feel you there! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 36 <div id="p_13" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Indifference">Indifference</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,— “I’ll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in bed; But I’ll never leave my pillow, though there be some As would let him in—and take him in with tears!” I said. I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,— I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; And he found me at my window with my big cloak on, All sorry with the tears some folks might weep! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 37 <div id="p_14" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Witch-Wife">Witch-Wife</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. </div> <div class="stanza"> She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of coloured beads, Or steps leading into the sea. </div> <div class="stanza"> She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 38 <div id="p_15" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Blight">Blight</h2></div> 39 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,— Rough stalks, and from thick stamens A poisonous pollen blown, And odours rank, unbreathable, From dark corollas thrown! </div> <div class="stanza"> At dawn from my damp garden I shook the chilly dew; The thin boughs locked behind me That sprang to let me through; The blossoms slept,—I sought a place Where nothing lovely grew. </div> <div class="stanza"> And there, when day was breaking, I knelt and looked around: The light was near, the silence Was palpitant with sound; I drew my hate from out my breast And thrust it in the ground. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, ye so fiercely tended, Ye little seeds of hate! I bent above your growing Early and noon and late, Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,— I cannot rear ye straight! </div> <div class="stanza"> The sun seeks out my garden, No nook is left in shade, No mist nor mould nor mildew Endures on any blade, Sweet rain slants under every bough: Ye falter, and ye fade. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 40 <div id="p_16" class="chapter"> <h2 id="When_the_Year_Grows_Old">When the Year Grows Old</h2></div> 41 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold! </div> <div class="stanza"> She used to watch the swallows Go down across the sky, And turn from the window With a little sharp sigh. </div> <div class="stanza"> And often when the brown leaves Were brittle on the ground, And the wind in the chimney Made a melancholy sound, </div> <div class="stanza"> She had a look about her That I wish I could forget— The look of a scared thing Sitting in a net! </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, beautiful at nightfall The soft spitting snow! And beautiful the bare boughs Rubbing to and fro! </div> <div class="stanza"> But the roaring of the fire, And the warmth of fur, And the boiling of the kettle Were beautiful to her! </div> <div class="stanza"> I cannot but remember When the year grows old— October—November— How she disliked the cold! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 42 <div id="p_17" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Sonnets">Sonnets</h2></div> <h3>I</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no, Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair Than small white single poppies,—I can bear Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though From left to right, not knowing where to go, I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so. Like him who day by day unto his draught Of delicate poison adds him one drop more Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten, Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed Each hour more deeply than the hour before, I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men. </div> </div></div> 43 <h3>II</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year’s bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide! There are a hundred places where I fear To go,—so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, “There is no memory of him here!” And so stand stricken, so remembering him! </div> </div></div> 44 <h3>III</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring And all the flowers that in the springtime grow, And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing The summer through, and each departing wing, And all the nests that the bared branches show, And all winds that in any weather blow, And all the storms that the four seasons bring. You go no more on your exultant feet Up paths that only mist and morning knew, Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat Of a bird’s wings too high in air to view,— But you were something more than young and sweet And fair,—and the long year remembers you. </div> </div></div> 45 <h3>IV</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Not in this chamber only at my birth— When the long hours of that mysterious night Were over, and the morning was in sight— I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth; And never shall one room contain me quite Who in so many rooms first saw the light, Child of all mothers, native of the earth. So is no warmth for me at any fire To-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low; I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire, At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong, And straighten back in weariness, and long To gather up my little gods and go. </div> </div></div> 46 <h3>V</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If I should learn, in some quite casual way, That you were gone, not to return again— Read from the back-page of a paper, say, Held by a neighbour in a subway train, How at the corner of this avenue And such a street (so are the papers filled) A hurrying man—who happened to be you— At noon to-day had happened to be killed, I should not cry aloud—I could not cry Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place— I should but watch the station lights rush by With a more careful interest on my face, Or raise my eyes and read with greater care Where to store furs and how to treat the hair. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 47 <div id="p_18" class="chapter"> <h3>VI Bluebeard</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> This door you might not open, and you did; So enter now, and see for what slight thing You are betrayed.... Here is no treasure hid, No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, But only what you see.... Look yet again— An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless. Yet this alone out of my life I kept Unto myself, lest any know me quite; And you did so profane me when you crept Unto the threshold of this room to-night That I must never more behold your face. This now is yours. I seek another place. </div> </div></div> <hr class="wide" /> 51 <h2 id="SECTION_TWO">SECTION TWO</h2></div> <hr class="wide" /> <div id="p_19" class="chapter"> <h2 id="I">I</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <div id="p_20"> <h2 id="II" class="nobreak">II</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 52 <div id="p_21" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Recuerdo">Recuerdo</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. </div> <div class="stanza"> We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. </div> <div class="stanza"> We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 53 <div id="p_22" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Thursday">Thursday</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday— So much is true. </div> <div class="stanza"> And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what Is that to me? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 54 <div id="p_23" class="chapter"> <h2 id="To_the_Not_Impossible_Him">To the Not Impossible Him</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo and Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way? </div> <div class="stanza"> Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose? </div> <div class="stanza"> The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 55 <div id="p_24" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Singing-Woman_from_the">The Singing-Woman from the Wood’s Edge</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter? </div> <div class="stanza"> And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog, That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar, But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter? </div> <div class="stanza"> You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web, </div> <div class="stanza"> But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love of a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me! </div> <div class="stanza"> After all’s said and after all’s done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun? </div> <div class="stanza"> In through the bushes, on any foggy day, My dad would come a-swishing of the drops away, With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth. </div> <div class="stanza"> And there’d sit my ma, with her knees beneath her chin, A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in, And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying! </div> <div class="stanza"> He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil! </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both ways by my mother and my father, With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?” </div> <div class="stanza"> With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 58 <div id="p_25" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Humoresque">Humoresque</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “Heaven bless the babe!” they said; “What queer books she must have read!” (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.) </div> <div class="stanza"> “Little does she guess to-day What the world may be,” they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover.) </div> </div></div> <hr /> 59 <div id="p_26" class="chapter"> <h2 id="She_is_Overheard_Singing">She is Overheard Singing</h2></div> 60 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, Prue she has a patient man, And Joan a gentle lover, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,— But my true love’s a rover! </div> <div class="stanza"> Mig, her man’s as good as cheese And honest as a briar, Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,— But my dear lad’s a liar! </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha Are thick with Mig and Joan! They bite their threads and shake their heads And gnaw my name like a bone; </div> <div class="stanza"> And Prue says, “Mine’s a patient man, As never snaps me up,” And Agatha, “Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth, Could live content in a cup;” </div> <div class="stanza"> Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell— All one colour, and clear— And Mig’s no call to think at all What’s to come next year, </div> <div class="stanza"> While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad, That’s troubled with that and this;— But they all would give the life they live For a look from the man I kiss! </div> <div class="stanza"> Cold he slants his eyes about, And few enough’s his choice,— Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen, Or a beggar with knots in her voice,— </div> <div class="stanza"> And Agatha will turn awake When her good man sleeps sound, And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue Will hear the clock strike round; </div> <div class="stanza"> For Prue she has a patient man, As asks not when or why, And Mig and Sue have naught to do But peep who’s passing by, </div> <div class="stanza"> Joan is paired with a putterer That bastes and tastes and salts, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,— But my true love is false! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 61 <div id="p_27" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Unexplorer">The Unexplorer</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s door. (That’s why I have not travelled more.) </div> </div></div> <hr /> 62 <div id="p_28" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Grown-Up">Grown-Up</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 63 <div id="p_29" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Penitent">The Penitent</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I, “And, Little Sin, pray God to die, And I upon the floor will lie And think how bad I’ve been!” </div> <div class="stanza"> Alas for pious planning— It mattered not a whit! As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit! My Little Sorrow would not weep, My Little Sin would go to sleep— To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it! </div> <div class="stanza"> So up I got in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, “One thing there’s no getting by— I’ve been a wicked girl,” said I; “But if I can’t be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!” </div> </div></div> <hr /> 64 <div id="p_30" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Daphne">Daphne</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Why do you follow me?— Any moment I can be Nothing but a laurel-tree. </div> <div class="stanza"> Any moment of the chase I can leave you in my place A pink bough for your embrace. </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet if over hill and hollow, Still it is your will to follow, I am off;—to heel, Apollo! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 65 <div id="p_31" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Portrait_by_a_Neighbour">Portrait by a Neighbour</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun! </div> <div class="stanza"> It’s long after midnight Her key’s in the lock, And you never see her chimney smoke Till past ten o’clock! </div> <div class="stanza"> She digs in her garden With a shovel and a spoon, She weeds her lazy lettuce By the light of the moon. </div> <div class="stanza"> She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream, She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream! </div> <div class="stanza"> Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s lace! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 66 <div id="p_32" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Merry_Maid">The Merry Maid</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, I am grown so free from care Since my heart broke! I set my throat against the air, I laugh at simple folk! </div> <div class="stanza"> There’s little kind and little fair Is worth its weight in smoke To me, that’s grown so free from care Since my heart broke! </div> <div class="stanza"> Lass, if to sleep you would repair As peaceful as you woke, Best not besiege your lover there For just the words he spoke To me, that’s grown so free from care Since my heart broke! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 67 <div id="p_33" class="chapter"> <h2 id="To_S_M">To S. M.</h2></div> If he should lie a-dying <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I am not willing you should go Into the earth, where Helen went; She is awake by now, I know. Where Cleopatra’s anklets rust You will not lie with my consent; And Sappho is a roving dust; Cressid could love again; Dido, Rotted in state, is restless still; You leave me much against my will. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 68 <div id="p_34" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Philosopher">The Philosopher</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> And what are you that, wanting you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake? </div> <div class="stanza"> And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall? </div> <div class="stanza"> I know a man that’s a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind? </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet women’s ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 69 <h2 id="Four_Sonnets">Four Sonnets</h2></div> <h3 id="p_35">I</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Love, though for this you riddle me with darts, And drag me at your chariot till I die,— Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!— Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair, Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr, Who still am free, unto no querulous care A fool, and in no temple worshipper! I, that have bared me to your quiver’s fire, Lifted my face into its puny rain, Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain! (Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave, Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!) </div> </div></div> 70 <h3 id="p_36" class="newpage">II</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I think I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung in jest; And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and breast; And all my pretty follies flung aside That won you to me, and beneath your gaze, Naked of reticence and shorn of pride, Spread like a chart my little wicked ways. I, that had been to you, had you remained, But one more waking from a recurrent dream, Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained, And walk your memory’s halls, austere, supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two. </div> </div></div> 71 <h3 id="p_37" class="newpage">III</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow! Faithless am I save to love’s self alone. Were you not lovely I would leave you now: After the feet of beauty fly my own. Were you not still my hunger’s rarest food, And water ever to my wildest thirst, I would desert you—think not but I would!— And seek another as I sought you first. But you are mobile as the veering air, And all your charms more changeful than the tide, Wherefore to be inconstant is no care: I have but to continue at your side. So wanton, light and false, my love, are you, I am most faithless when I most am true. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 72 <h3 id="p_38" class="newpage">IV</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favourite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,— Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking. </div> </div></div> <hr class="wide" /> 75 <h2 id="SECTION_THREE">SECTION THREE</h2></div> <hr class="wide" /> <div id="p_39" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Spring">Spring</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 76 <div id="p_40" class="chapter"> <h2 id="City_Trees">City Trees</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The trees along this city street, Save for the traffic and the trains, Would make a sound as thin and sweet As trees in country lanes. </div> <div class="stanza"> And people standing in their shade Out of a shower, undoubtedly Would hear such music as is made Upon a country tree. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, little leaves that are so dumb Against the shrieking city air, I watch you when the wind has come— I know what sound is there. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 77 <div id="p_41" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Blue-Flag_in_the_Bog">The Blue-Flag in the Bog</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> God had called us, and we came; Our loved Earth to ashes left; Heaven was a neighbour’s house, Open flung to us, bereft. </div> <div class="stanza"> Gay the lights of Heaven showed, And ’twas God Who walked ahead; Yet I wept along the road, Wanting my own house instead. </div> <div class="stanza"> Wept unseen, unheeded cried, “All you things my eyes have kissed, Fare you well! We meet no more, Lovely, lovely tattered mist! </div> <div class="stanza"> Weary wings that rise and fall All day long above the fire!”— Red with heat was every wall, Rough with heat was every wire— </div> <div class="stanza"> “Fare you well, you little winds That the flying embers chase! Fare you well, you shuddering day, With your hands before your face! </div> <div class="stanza"> And, ah, blackened by strange blight, Or to a false sun unfurled, Now for evermore good-bye, All the gardens in the world! </div> <div class="stanza"> On the windless hills of Heaven, That I have no wish to see, White, eternal lilies stand, By a lake of ebony. </div> <div class="stanza"> But the Earth forevermore Is a place where nothing grows,— Dawn will come, and no bud break; Evening, and no blossom close. </div> <div class="stanza"> Spring will come, and wander slow Over an indifferent land, Stand beside an empty creek, Hold a dead seed in her hand.” </div> <div class="stanza"> God had called us, and we came, But the blessed road I trod Was a bitter road to me, And at heart I questioned God. </div> <div class="stanza"> “Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all That the heart would most desire, Held Earth naught save souls of sinners Worth the saving from a fire? </div> <div class="stanza"> Withered grass,—the wasted growing! Aimless ache of laden boughs!” Little things God had forgotten Called me, from my burning house. </div> <div class="stanza"> “Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all That the eye could ask to see, All the things I ever knew Are this blaze in back of me.” </div> <div class="stanza"> “Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all That the ear could think to lack, All the things I ever knew Are this roaring at my back.” </div> <div class="stanza"> It was God Who walked ahead, Like a shepherd to the fold; In His footsteps fared the weak, And the weary and the old, </div> <div class="stanza"> Glad enough of gladness over, Ready for the peace to be,— But a thing God had forgotten Was the growing bones of me. </div> <div class="stanza"> And I drew a bit apart, And I lagged a bit behind, And I thought on Peace Eternal, Lest He look into my mind; </div> <div class="stanza"> And I gazed upon the sky, And I thought of Heavenly Rest,— And I slipped away like water Through the fingers of the blest! </div> <div class="stanza"> All their eyes were fixed on Glory, Not a glance brushed over me; “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Up the road,—and I was free. </div> <div class="stanza"> And my heart rose like a freshet, And it swept me on before, Giddy as a whirling stick, Till I felt the earth once more. </div> <div class="stanza"> All the Earth was charred and black, had swept from pole to pole; And the bottom of the sea Was as brittle as a bowl; </div> <div class="stanza"> And the timbered mountain-top Was as naked as a skull,— Nothing left, nothing left, Of the Earth so beautiful! </div> <div class="stanza"> “Earth,” I said, “how can I leave you? “You are all I have,” I said; “What is left to take my mind up, Living always, and you dead? </div> <div class="stanza"> “Speak!” I said, “Oh, tell me something! Make a sign that I can see! For a keepsake! To keep always! Quick!—before God misses me!” </div> <div class="stanza"> And I listened for a voice;— But my heart was all I heard; Not a screech-owl, not a loon, Not a tree-toad said a word. </div> <div class="stanza"> And I waited for a sign;— Coals and cinders, nothing more; And a little cloud of smoke Floating on a valley floor. </div> <div class="stanza"> And I peered into the smoke Till it rotted, like a fog:— There, encompassed round by fire, Stood a blue-flag in a bog! </div> <div class="stanza"> Little flames came wading out, Straining, draining towards its stem, But it was so blue and tall That it scorned to think of them! </div> <div class="stanza"> Red and thirsty were their tongues, As the tongues of wolves must be, But it was so blue and tall— Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! </div> <div class="stanza"> All my heart became a tear, All my soul became a tower, Never loved I anything As I loved that tall blue flower! </div> <div class="stanza"> It was all the little boats That had ever sailed the sea, It was all the little books That had gone to school with me; </div> <div class="stanza"> On its roots like iron claws Rearing up so blue and tall,— It was all the gallant Earth With its back against a wall! </div> <div class="stanza"> In a breath, ere I had breathed,— Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!— I was kneeling at its side, And it leaned its head on me! </div> <div class="stanza"> Crumbling stones and sliding sand Is the road to Heaven now; Icy at my straining knees Drags the awful under-tow; </div> <div class="stanza"> Soon but stepping-stones of dust Will the road to Heaven be,— Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Reach a hand and rescue me! </div> <div class="stanza"> “There—there, my blue-flag flower; Hush—hush—go to sleep; That is only God you hear, Counting up His folded sheep! </div> <div class="stanza"> Lullabye—lullabye— That is only God that calls, Missing me, seeking me, Ere the road to nothing falls! </div> <div class="stanza"> He will set His mighty feet Firmly on the sliding sand; Like a little frightened bird I will creep into His hand; </div> <div class="stanza"> I will tell Him all my grief, I will tell Him all my sin; He will give me half His robe For a cloak to wrap you in. </div> <div class="stanza"> Lullabye—lullabye—” Rocks the burnt-out planet free!— Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Reach a hand and rescue me! </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, the voice of love at last! Lo, at last the face of light! And the whole of His white robe For a cloak against the night! </div> <div class="stanza"> And upon my heart asleep All the things I ever knew!— “Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, For a flower so tall and blue?” </div> <div class="stanza"> All’s well and all’s well! Gay the lights of Heaven show! In some moist and Heavenly place We will set it out to grow. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 86 <div id="p_42" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Eel-Grass">Eel-Grass</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> No matter what I say, All that I really love Is the rain that flattens on the bay, And the eel-grass in the cove; The jingle-shells that lie and bleach At the tide-line, and the trace Of higher tides along the beach: Nothing in this place. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 87 <div id="p_43" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Elegy_before_Death">Elegy before Death</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> There will be rose and rhododendron When you are dead and under ground; Still will be heard from white syringas Heavy with bees, a sunny sound; </div> <div class="stanza"> Still will the tamaracks be raining After the rain has ceased, and still Will there be robins in the stubble, Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. </div> <div class="stanza"> Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; Nothing will know that you are gone, Saving alone some sullen plough-land None but yourself sets foot upon; </div> <div class="stanza"> Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed Nothing will know that you are dead,— These, and perhaps a useless wagon Standing beside some tumbled shed. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, there will pass with your great passing Little of beauty not your own,— Only the light from common water, Only the grace from simple stone! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 88 <div id="p_44" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Bean-Stalk">The Bean-Stalk</h2></div> 89 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! La,—but it’s lovely, up so high! </div> <div class="stanza"> This is how I came,—I put There my knee, here my foot, Up and up, from shoot to shoot— And the blessed bean-stalk thinning Like the mischief all the time, Till it took me rocking, spinning, In a dizzy, sunny circle, Making angles with the root, Far and out above the cackle Of the city I was born in, Till the little dirty city In the light so sheer and sunny Shone as dazzling bright and pretty As the money that you find In a dream of finding money— What a wind! What a morning!— </div> <div class="stanza"> Till the tiny, shiny city, When I shot a glance below, Shaken with a giddy laughter, Sick and blissfully afraid, Was a dew-drop on a blade, And a pair of moments after Was the whirling guess I made,— And the wind was like a whip Cracking past my icy ears, And my hair stood out behind, And my eyes were full of tears, Wide-open and cold, More tears than they could hold, The wind was blowing so, And my teeth were in a row, Dry and grinning, And I felt my foot slip, And I scratched the wind and whined, And I clutched the stalk and jabbered, With my eyes shut blind,— What a wind! What a wind! </div> <div class="stanza"> Your broad sky, Giant, Is the shelf of a cupboard; I make bean-stalks, I’m A builder, like yourself, But bean-stalks is my trade, I couldn’t make a shelf, Don’t know how they’re made, Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant— La, what a climb! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 90 <div id="p_45" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Weeds">Weeds</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> White with daisies and red with sorrel And empty, empty under the sky!— Life is a quest and love a quarrel— Here is a place for me to lie. </div> <div class="stanza"> Daisies spring from damnèd seeds, And this red fire that here I see Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, Cursed by farmers thriftily. </div> <div class="stanza"> But here, unhated for an hour, The sorrel runs in ragged flame, The daisy stands, a bastard flower, Like flowers that bear an honest name. </div> <div class="stanza"> And here a while, where no wind brings The baying of a pack athirst, May sleep the sleep of blessed things The blood too bright, the brow accurst. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 91 <div id="p_46" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Passer_Mortuus_Est">Passer Mortuus Est</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Death devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness,—presently Every bed is narrow. </div> <div class="stanza"> Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation, And the little petulant hand Is an annotation. </div> <div class="stanza"> After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 92 <div id="p_47" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Pastoral">Pastoral</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> If it were only still!— With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow’s throat Moving through the bushes; Or the soft shock Of wizened apples falling From an old tree In a forgotten orchard Upon the hilly rock! </div> <div class="stanza"> Oh, grey hill, Where the grazing herd Licks the purple blossom, Crops the spiky weed! Oh, stony pasture, Where the tall mullein Stands up so sturdy On its little seed! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 93 <div id="p_48" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Assault">Assault</h2></div> <h3>I</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I had forgotten how the frogs must sound After a year of silence, else I think I should not so have ventured forth alone At dusk upon this unfrequented road. </div> </div></div> <h3>II</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk Between me and the crying of the frogs? Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, That am a timid woman, on her way From one house to another! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 94 <div id="p_49" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Travel">Travel</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. </div> <div class="stanza"> All night there isn’t a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. </div> <div class="stanza"> My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 95 <div id="p_50" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Low-Tide">Low-Tide</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> These wet rocks where the tide has been, Barnacled white and weeded brown And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, These wet rocks where the tide went down Will show again when the tide is high Faint and perilous, far from shore, No place to dream, but a place to die,— The bottom of the sea once more. There was a child that wandered through A giant’s empty house all day,— House full of wonderful things and new, But no fit place for a child to play. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 96 <div id="p_51" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Song_of_a_Second_April">Song of a Second April</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so Are here again, and butterflies. </div> <div class="stanza"> There rings a hammering all day, And shingles lie about the doors; In orchards near and far away The grey woodpecker taps and bores; And men are merry at their chores, And children earnest at their play. </div> <div class="stanza"> The larger streams run still and deep, Noisy and swift the small brooks run Among the mullein stalks the sheep Go up the hillside in the sun, Pensively,—only you are gone, You that alone I cared to keep. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 97 <div id="p_52" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Poet_and_his_Book">The Poet and his Book</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone, before you bury One sweet bone of mine! </div> <div class="stanza"> When shall I be dead? When my flesh is withered, And above my head Yellow pollen gathered All the empty afternoon? When sweet lovers pause and wonder Who am I that lie thereunder, Hidden from the moon? </div> <div class="stanza"> This my personal death?— That my lungs be failing To inhale the breath Others are exhaling? This my subtle spirit’s end?— Ah, when the thawed winter splashes Over these chance dust and ashes, Weep not me, my friend! </div> <div class="stanza"> Me, by no means dead In that hour, but surely When this book, unread, Rots to earth obscurely, And no more to any breast, Close against the clamorous swelling Of the thing there is no telling, Are these pages pressed! </div> <div class="stanza"> When this book is mould, And a book of many Waiting to be sold For a casual penny, In a little open case, In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spattered From the passing drays, </div> <div class="stanza"> Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I! </div> <div class="stanza"> When these veins are weeds, When these hollowed sockets Watch the rooty seeds Bursting down like rockets, And surmise the spring again, Or, remote in that black cupboard, Watch the pink worms writhing upward At the smell of rain, </div> <div class="stanza"> Boys and girls that lie Whispering in the hedges, Do not let me die, Mix me with your pledges; Boys and girls that slowly walk In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, Staring past the pink wild laurel, Mix me with your talk, </div> <div class="stanza"> Do not let me die! Farmers at your raking, When the sun is high, While the hay is making, When, along the stubble strewn, Withering on their stalks uneaten, Strawberries turn dark and sweeten In the lapse of noon; </div> <div class="stanza"> Shepherds on the hills, In the pastures, drowsing To the tinkling bells Of the brown sheep browsing; Sailors crying through the storm; Scholars at your study; hunters Lost amid the whirling winter’s Whiteness uniform; </div> <div class="stanza"> Men that long for sleep; Men that wake and revel;— If an old song leap To your senses’ level At such moments, may it be Sometimes, though a moment only, Some forgotten, quaint and homely Vehicle of me! </div> <div class="stanza"> Women at your toil, Women at your leisure Till the kettle boil, Snatch of me your pleasure, Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; Women quiet with your weeping Lest you wake a workman sleeping, Mix me with your grief! </div> <div class="stanza"> Boys and girls that steal From the shocking laughter Of the old, to kneel By a dripping rafter Under the discoloured eaves, Out of trunks with hingeless covers Lifting tales of saints and lovers, Travellers, goblins, thieves, </div> <div class="stanza"> Suns that shine by night, Mountains made from valleys,— Bear me to the light, Flat upon your bellies By the webby window lie, Where the little flies are crawling,— Read me, margin me with scrawling, Do not let me die! </div> <div class="stanza"> Sexton, ply your trade! In a shower of gravel Stamp upon your spade! Many a rose shall ravel, Many a metal wreath shall rust In the rain, and I go singing Through the lots where you are flinging Yellow clay on dust! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 102 <div id="p_53" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Alms">Alms</h2></div> 103 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> My heart is what it was before, A house where people come and go; But it is winter with your love, The sashes are beset with snow. </div> <div class="stanza"> I light the lamp and lay the cloth, I blow the coals to blaze again; But it is winter with your love, The frost is thick upon the pane. </div> <div class="stanza"> I know a winter when it comes: The leaves are listless on the boughs; I watched your love a little while, And brought my plants into the house. </div> <div class="stanza"> I water them and turn them south, I snap the dead brown from the stem; But it is winter with your love,— I only tend and water them. </div> <div class="stanza"> There was a time I stood and watched The small, ill-natured sparrows’ fray; I loved the beggar that I fed, I cared for what he had to say, </div> <div class="stanza"> I stood and watched him out of sight; To-day I reach around the door And set a bowl upon the step; My heart is what it was before, </div> <div class="stanza"> But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window,—and the birds May take or leave them, as they will. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 104 <div id="p_54" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Inland">Inland</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound </div> <div class="stanza"> Of water sucking the hollow ledges, Tons of water striking the shore,— What do they long for, as I long for One salt smell of the sea once more? </div> <div class="stanza"> People the waves have not awakened, Spanking the boats at the harbour’s head, What do they long for, as I long for,— Starting up in my inland bed, </div> <div class="stanza"> Beating the narrow walls, and finding Neither a window nor a door, Screaming to God for death by drowning,— One salt taste of the sea once more? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 105 <div id="p_55" class="chapter"> <h2 id="To_a_Poet_that_Died_Young">To a Poet that Died Young</h2></div> 106 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days, Strives the poet in your praise, Minstrel, by whose singing side Beauty walked, until you died. </div> <div class="stanza"> Still, though none should hark again, Drones the blue-fly in the pane, Thickly crusts the blackest moss, Blows the rose its musk across, Floats the boat that is forgot None the less to Camelot. </div> <div class="stanza"> Many a bard’s untimely death Lends unto his verses breath; Here’s a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young. Minstrel, what is this to you: That a man you never knew, When your grave was far and green, Sat and gossipped with a queen? </div> <div class="stanza"> Thalia knows how rare a thing Is it, to grow old and sing; When the brown and tepid tide Closes in on every side. Who shall say if Shelley’s gold Had withstood it to grow old? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 107 <div id="p_56" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Wraith">Wraith</h2></div> 108 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?” —Surely it is not I she’s wanting; Someone living here before— “Nobody’s in the house but me: You may come in if you like and see.” </div> <div class="stanza"> Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,— Have you seen her, any of you?— Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, And the garden showing through? </div> <div class="stanza"> Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly, Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, Asking something, asking it over, If you get a sound from her.— </div> <div class="stanza"> Ever see her, any of you?— Strangest thing I’ve ever known,— Every night since I moved in, And I came to be alone. </div> <div class="stanza"> “Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! You may not come in! This is I that you hear rocking; Nobody’s with me, nor has been!” </div> <div class="stanza"> Curious, how she tried the window,— Odd, the way she tries the door,— Wonder just what sort of people Could have had this house before.... </div> </div></div> <hr /> 109 <div id="p_57" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Ebb">Ebb</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide, A little tepid pool, Drying inward from the edge. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 110 <div id="p_58" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Elaine">Elaine</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, come again to Astolat! I will not ask you to be kind. And you may go when you will go, And I will stay behind. </div> <div class="stanza"> I will not say how dear you are, Or ask you if you hold me dear, Or trouble you with things for you The way I did last year. </div> <div class="stanza"> So still the orchard, Lancelot, So very still the lake shall be, You could not guess—though you should guess— What is become of me. </div> <div class="stanza"> So wide shall be the garden-walk, The garden-seat so very wide, You needs must think—if you should think— The lily maid had died. </div> <div class="stanza"> Save that, a little way away, I’d watch you for a little while, To see you speak, the way you speak, And smile,—if you should smile. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 111 <div id="p_59" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Burial">Burial</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Mine is a body that should die at sea! And have for a grave, instead of a grave Six feet deep and the length of me, All the water that is under the wave! </div> <div class="stanza"> And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, Such as a living man might fear, And eat me while I am firm and fresh,— Not wait till I’ve been dead for a year! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 112 <div id="p_60" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Mariposa">Mariposa</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. </div> <div class="stanza"> All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour. Mark the transient butterfly, How he hangs upon the flower. </div> <div class="stanza"> Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, Death comes in a day or two. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 113 <div id="p_61" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Doubt_no_more_that_Oberon">Doubt no more that Oberon</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Doubt no more that Oberon— Never doubt that Pan Lived, and played a reed, and ran After nymphs in a dark forest In the merry, credulous days,— Lived, and led a fairy band Over the indulgent land! Ah, for in this dourest, sorest Age man’s eye has looked upon, Death to fauns and death to fays, Still the dog-wood dares to raise— Healthy tree, with trunk and root— Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, And the starlings and the jays— Birds that cannot even sing— Dare to come again in spring! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 114 <div id="p_62" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Lament">Lament</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I’ll make you little jackets; I’ll make you little trousers From his old pants. There’ll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, And the dead be forgotten; Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 115 <div id="p_63" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Exiled">Exiled</h2></div> 116 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea; </div> <div class="stanza"> Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness Of the strong wind and shattered spray; Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound Of the big surf that breaks all day. </div> <div class="stanza"> Always before about my dooryard, Marking the reach of the winter sea, Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; </div> <div class="stanza"> Always I climbed the wave at morning, Shook the sand from my shoes at night, That now am caught beneath great buildings Stricken with noise, confused with light. </div> <div class="stanza"> If I could hear the green piles groaning Under the windy wooden piers, See once again the bobbing barrels, And the black sticks that fence the weirs, </div> <div class="stanza"> If I could see the weedy mussels Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, Hear once again the hungry crying Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, </div> <div class="stanza"> Feel once again the shanty straining Under the turning of the tide, Fear once again the rising freshet, Dread the bell in the fog outside,— </div> <div class="stanza"> I should be happy,—that was happy All day long on the coast of Maine! I have a need to hold and handle Shells and anchors and ships again! </div> <div class="stanza"> I should be happy, that am happy Never at all since I came here. I am too long away from water. I have a need of water near. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 117 <div id="p_64" class="chapter"> <h2 id="The_Death_of_Autumn">The Death of Autumn</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,— Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,—but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me? </div> </div></div> <hr /> 118 <div id="p_65" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Ode_to_Silence">Ode to Silence</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Aye, but she? Your other sister and my other soul, Grave Silence, lovelier Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? Clio, not you, Not you, Calliope, Nor all your wanton line, Not Beauty’s perfect self shall comfort me For Silence once departed, For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, Whom evermore I follow wilfully, Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; Thalia, not you, Not you, Melpomene, Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, I seek in this great hall, But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. I seek her from afar. I come from temples where her altars are, From groves that bear her name, Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, And cymbals struck on high and strident faces Obstreperous in her praise They neither love nor know, A goddess of gone days, Departed long ago, Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes Of her old sanctuary, A deity obscure and legendary, Of whom there now remains, For sages to decipher and priests to garble, Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, And the inarticulate snow, Leaving at last of her least signs and traces None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. </div> <div class="stanza"> “She will love well,” I said, “If love be of that heart inhabiter, The flowers of the dead; The red anemone that with no sound Moves in the wind, and from another wound That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, That blossoms underground, And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. And will not Silence know In the black shade of what obsidian steep Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? (Seed which Demeter’s daughter bore from home, Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, Reluctant even as she, Undone Persephone, And even as she set out again to grow In twilight, in perdition’s lean and inauspicious loam). She will love well,” I said, “The flowers of the dead; Where dark Persephone the winter round, Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, Stares on the stagnant stream That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, There, there will she be found, She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound.” </div> <div class="stanza"> “I long for Silence as they long for breath Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; What thing can be So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, Upon whose icy breast, Unquestioned, uncaressed, One time I lay, And whom always I lack, Even to this day, Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, If only she therewith be given me back?” </div> <div class="stanza"> I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, And in among the bloodless everywhere I sought her, but the air, Breathed many times and spent, Was fretful with a whispering discontent, And questioning me, importuning me to tell Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. I paused at every grievous door, And harked a moment, holding up my hand,—and for a space A hush was on them, while they watched my face; And then they fell a-whispering as before; So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. I sought her, too, Among the upper gods, although I knew She was not like to be where feasting is, Nor near to Heaven’s lord, Being a thing abhorred And shunned of him, although a child of his, (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). Fearing to pass unvisited some place And later learn, too late, how all the while, With her still face, She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, I sought her even to the sagging board whereat The stout immortals sat; But such a laughter shook the mighty hall No one could hear me say: Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? And no one knew at all How long I stood or when at last I sighed and went away. </div> <div class="stanza"> There is a garden lying in a lull Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, I know not where, but which a dream diurnal Paints on my lids a moment till the hull Be lifted from the kernel And Slumber fed to me. Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, Though it would seem a ruined place and after Your lichenous heart, being full Of broken columns, caryatides Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, And urns funereal altered into dust Minuter than the ashes of the dead, And Psyche’s lamp out of the earth up-thrust, Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. </div> <div class="stanza"> There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; But never an echo of your daughters’ laughter Is there, nor any sign of you at all Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! Only her shadow once upon a stone I saw,—and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. </div> <div class="stanza"> I tell you you have done her body an ill, You chatterers, you noisy crew! She is not anywhere! I sought her in deep Hell; And through the world as well; I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; Above nor underground Is Silence to be found, That was the very warp and woof of you, Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! Oh, say if on this hill Somewhere your sister’s body lies in death, So I may follow there, and make a wreath Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast Shall lie till age has withered them! </div> <div class="stanza"> (Ah, sweetly from the rest I see Turn and consider me Compassionate Euterpe!) “There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell,” she saith, “Whereon but to believe is horror! Whereon to meditate engendereth Even in deathless spirits such as I A tumult in the breath, A chilling of the inexhaustible blood Even in my veins that never will be dry, And in the austere, divine monotony That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. </div> <div class="stanza"> This is her province whom you lack and seek; And seek her not elsewhere. Hell is a thoroughfare For pilgrims,—Herakles, And he that loved Euridice too well, Have walked therein; and many more than these; And witnessed the desire and the despair Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; You, too, have entered Hell, And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak None has returned;—for thither fury brings Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there.” Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! Be long upon this height I shall not climb again! I know the way you mean,—the little night, And the long empty day,—never to see Again the angry light, Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah, but she, Your other sister and my other soul, She shall again be mine; And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, A chilly thin green wine, Not bitter to the taste, Not sweet, Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,— To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth— But savouring faintly of the acid earth, And trod by pensive feet From perfect clusters ripened without haste Out of the urgent heat In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. </div> <div class="stanza"> Lift up your lyres! Sing on! But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 127 <div id="p_66" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Memorial_to_D_C">Memorial to D. C.</h2></div> [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, Where now no more the music is, With hands that wrote you little notes I write you little elegies! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 128 <h2 id="EI">I Epitaph</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well; Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell? She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 129 <h2 id="EII">II Prayer to Persephone</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be; Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,—Persephone, Take her head upon your knee; Say to her, “My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here.” </div> </div></div> <hr /> 130 <h2 id="III">III Chorus</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Give away her gowns, Give away her shoes; She has no more use For her fragrant gowns; Take them all down, Blue, green, blue, Lilac, pink, blue, From their padded hangers; She will dance no more In her narrow shoes; Sweep her narrow shoes From the closet floor. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 131 <h2 id="IV">IV Elegy</h2></div> 132 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair, Soft, indefinite-coloured hair,— All of these in some way, surely, From the secret earth shall rise; Not for these I sit and stare, Broken and bereft completely; Your young flesh that sat so neatly On your little bones will sweetly Blossom in the air. </div> <div class="stanza"> But your voice,—never the rushing Of a river underground, Not the rising of the wind In the trees before the rain, Not the woodcock’s watery call, Not the note the white-throat utters, Not the feet of children pushing Yellow leaves along the gutters In the blue and bitter fall, Shall content my musing mind For the beauty of that sound That in no new way at all Ever will be heard again. Sweetly through the sappy stalk Of the vigorous weed, Holding all it held before, Cherished by the faithful sun, On and on eternally Shall your altered fluid run, Bud and bloom and go to seed; But your singing days are done; But the music of your talk Never shall the chemistry Of the secret earth restore. All your lovely words are spoken. Once the ivory box is broken, Beats the golden bird no more. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 133 <h2 id="V">V Dirge</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Boys and girls that held her dear, Do your weeping now; All you loved of her lies here. </div> <div class="stanza"> Brought to earth the arrogant brow, And the withering tongue Chastened; do your weeping now. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sing whatever songs are sung, Wind whatever wreath, For a playmate perished young, </div> <div class="stanza"> For a spirit spent in death. Boys and girls that held her dear, All you loved of her lies here. </div> </div></div> <hr /> 134 <div id="p_67" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Sonnets2">Sonnets</h2></div> <h3>I</h3> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; Well, such you are,—but well enough we know How thick about us root, how rankly grow Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, That flourish through neglect, and soon must send Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow Our steady senses; how such matters go We are aware, and how such matters end. Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; With lovers such as we for evermore Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere Receives the Table’s ruin through her door, Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, Lets fall the coloured book upon the floor. </div> </div></div> 135 <h3>II</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Into the golden vessel of great song Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue Of all the world: the churning blood, the long Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed Sharply together upon the escaping guest, The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. Longing alone is singer to the lute; Let still on nettles in the open sigh The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute As any man, and love be far and high, That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit Found on the ground by every passer-by. </div> </div></div> 136 <h3>III</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove, Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after The launching of the coloured moths of Love. Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zone We bound about our irreligious brows, And fettered him with garlands of our own, And spread a banquet in his frugal house. Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear Though we should break our bodies in his flame, And pour our blood upon his altar, here Henceforward is a grove without a name, A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan, Whence flee forever a woman and a man. </div> </div></div> 137 <h3>IV</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Only until this cigarette is ended, A little moment at the end of all, While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, And in the firelight to a lance extended, Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, The broken shadow dances on the wall, I will permit my memory to recall The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. Yours is a face of which I can forget The colour and the features, every one, The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; But in your day this moment is the sun Upon a hill, after the sun has set. </div> </div></div> 138 <h3>V</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Once more into my arid days like dew, Like wind from an oasis, or the sound Of cold sweet water bubbling underground, A treacherous messenger, the thought of you Comes to destroy me; once more I renew Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found Long since to be but just one other mound Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew. And once again, and wiser in no wise, I chase your coloured phantom on the air, And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise And stumble pitifully on to where, Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there. </div> </div></div> 139 <h3>VI</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> No rose that in a garden ever grew, In Homer’s or in Omar’s or in mine, Though buried under centuries of fine Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew Forever, and forever lost from view, But must again in fragrance rich as wine The grey aisles of the air incarnadine When the old summers surge into a new. Thus when I swear, “I love with all my heart,” ’Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear, ’Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece; And thus as well my love must lose some part Of what it is, had Helen been less fair, Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece. </div> </div></div> 140 <h3>VII</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark. </div> </div></div> 141 <h3>VIII</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> And you as well must die, beloved dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead; This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, This body of flame and steel, before the gust Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled, Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my love, you will arise Upon that day and wander down the air Obscurely as the unattended flower, It mattering not how beautiful you were, Or how beloved above all else that dies. </div> </div></div> 142 <h3>IX</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands Forgetting who I am, and how the sands Of such a life as mine run red and gold Even to the ultimate sifting dust, “Behold, Here walketh passionless age!”—for there expands A curious superstition in these lands, And by its leave some weightless tales are told. In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; Impious no less in ruin than in strength, When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, Let you not say, “Upon this reverend site The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer.” </div> </div></div> 143 <h3>X</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this: How in the years to come unscrupulous Time, More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss, And make you old, and leave me in my prime? How you and I, who scale together yet A little while the sweet, immortal height No pilgrim may remember or forget, As sure as the world turns, some granite night Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame Gone out forever on the mutual stone; And call to mind how on the day you came I was a child, and you a hero grown?— And the night pass, and the strange morning break Upon our anguish for each other’s sake! </div> </div></div> 144 <h3>XI</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> As to some lovely temple, tenantless Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass Grown up between the stones, yet from excess Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness, The worshipper returns, and those who pass Marvel him crying on a name that was,— So is it now with me in my distress. Your body was a temple to Delight; Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled, Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; Here might I hope to find you day or night, And here I come to look for you, my love, Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead. </div> </div></div> 145 <h3>XII</h3></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Cherish you then the hope I shall forget At length, my lord, Pieria?—put away For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay, These mortal bones against my body set, For all the puny fever and frail sweat Of human love,—renounce for these, I say, The Singing Mountain’s memory, and betray The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet? Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake, Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side So many nights, a lover and a bride, But stern in my soul’s chastity, have lain, To walk the world forever for my sake, And in each chamber find me gone again! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 146 <div id="p_68" class="chapter"> <h2 id="Wild_Swans">Wild Swans</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. And what did I see I had not seen before? Only a question less or a question more; Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying. Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, House without air, I leave you and lock your door. Wild swans, come over the town, come over The town again, trailing your legs and crying! </div> </div></div> Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. <div id="ads"> <div class="abox"> Works by D. H. Lawrence ❧ The Lost Girl, 9s. Women in Love, 9s. 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The Caerleon Edition, £9 9s. </div> <div class="abox"> Works by Lascelles Abercrombie ❧ Four Short Plays, 6s. Towards a Theory of Art, 5s. Principles of English Prosody, 5s. The Epic: An Essay, 5s. Speculative Dialogues, 5s. Thomas Hardy: A Critical Study, 3s. 6d. Martin Secker </div> </div> <div class="transnote"> <h2 class="nobreak p1" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling inconsistencies were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied by examining other copies of the same poems. Transcriber added a missing exclamation mark at the end of Burial.” Decorative floral bullets are similar, but not identical, to the ones in the original. </div> </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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