For the grey rat found the gold thirteen Huddled away in the dark, Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen, Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.
Once I had a lover bright like running water, Once his face was laughing like the sky; Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter On the b.u.t.tercups, and the b.u.t.tercups was I.
What, then, is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom?
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
"Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom; What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men!
Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom, And her shift is lying white upon the floor, That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm, Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.
Oh the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples, Oh the golden sparkles laid extinct!
And oh, behind the cloud-sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples, Did you see the wicked sun that winked!
RESTLESSNESS
AT the open door of the room I stand and look at the night, Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight, Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light of the room.
I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light, And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.
I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the sh.o.r.e To draw his net through the surfs thin line, at the dawn before The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide.
I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.
I will catch in my eyes" quick net The faces of all the women as they go past, Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: "Is it you?"
Looking earnestly under the dark umbrellas, held fast Against the wind; and if, where the lamplight blew Its rainy swill about us, she answered me With a laugh and a merry wildness that it was she Who was seeking me, and had found me at last to free Me now from the stunting bonds of my chast.i.ty, How glad I should be!
Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night Pa.s.s the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool; Why don"t they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight?
Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool?
I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls, Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves, Always kneel in courtship to the shelves in the doorways, where falls The shadow, always offer myself to one mistress, who always receives.
But oh, it is not enough, it is all no good.
There is something I want to feel in my running blood, Something I want to touch; I must hold my face to the rain, I must hold my face to the wind, and let it explain Me its life as it hurries in secret.
I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves, Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.
A BABY ASLEEP AFTER PAIN
As a drenched, drowned bee Hangs numb and heavy from a bending flower, So clings to me My baby, her brown hair brushed with wet tears And laid against her cheek; Her soft white legs hanging heavily over my arm Swinging heavily to my movement as I walk.
My sleeping baby hangs upon my life, Like a burden she hangs on me.
She has always seemed so light, But now she is wet with tears and numb with pain Even her floating hair sinks heavily, Reaching downwards; As the wings of a drenched, drowned bee Are a heaviness, and a weariness.
ANXIETY
THE h.o.a.r-frost crumbles in the sun, The crisping steam of a train Melts in the air, while two black birds Sweep past the window again.
Along the vacant road, a red Bicycle approaches; I wait In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy To leap down at our gate.
He has pa.s.sed us by; but is it Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still She has no rest.
THE PUNISHER
I HAVE fetched the tears up out of the little wells, Scooped them up with small, iron words, Dripping over the runnels.
The harsh, cold wind of my words drove on, and still I watched the tears on the guilty cheek of the boys Glitter and spill.
Cringing Pity, and Love, white-handed, came Hovering about the Judgment which stood in my eyes, Whirling a flame.
The tears are dry, and the cheeks" young fruits are fresh With laughter, and clear the exonerated eyes, since pain Beat through the flesh.
The Angel of Judgment has departed again to the Nearness.
Desolate I am as a church whose lights are put out.
And night enters in drearness.
The fire rose up in the bush and blazed apace, The thorn-leaves crackled and twisted and sweated in anguish; Then G.o.d left the place.
Like a flower that the frost has hugged and let go, my head Is heavy, and my heart beats slowly, laboriously, My strength is shed.
THE END
IF I could have put you in my heart, If but I could have wrapped you in myself, How glad I should have been!
And now the chart Of memory unrolls again to me The course of our journey here, before we had to part.
And oh, that you had never, never been Some of your selves, my love, that some Of your several faces I had never seen!
And still they come before me, and they go, And I cry aloud in the moments that intervene.
And oh, my love, as I rock for you to-night, And have not any longer any hope To heal the suffering, or make requite For all your life of asking and despair, I own that some of me is dead to-night.
THE BRIDE
MY love looks like a girl to-night, But she is old.
The plaits that lie along her pillow Are not gold, But threaded with filigree, And uncanny cold.
She looks like a young maiden, since her brow Is smooth and fair, Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed, She sleeps a rare Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed.
Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams Of perfect things.
She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream, And her dead mouth sings By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.
THE VIRGIN MOTHER
MY little love, my darling, You were a doorway to me; You let me out of the confines Into this strange countrie, Where people are crowded like thistles, Yet are shapely and comely to see.