WHITE MAGIC.
Is it not a wonderful thing to be able to force an astonished plant to bear rare flowers which are foreign to it ... and to obtain a marvellous result from sap which, left to itself, would have produced corollas without beauty?--VIRGIL.
I stood forlorn and pale, Pressed by the cold sand, pinched by the thin gra.s.s, Last of my race and frail Who reigned in beauty once when beauty was, Before the rich earth beckoned to the sea, Took his salt lips to taste, And spread this gradual waste-- This ruin of flower, this doom of gra.s.s and tree.
Each Spring could scarcely lift My brows from the sand drift To fill my lips with April as she went, Or force my weariness To its sad, summer dress: On the harsh beach I heard the grey sea rise, The ragged gra.s.s made ceaseless, dim lament, And day and night scarce changed the mournful skies.
Foot on the sand, a shadow on the sea!
A face leaned over me.
Across each wasted limb Pa.s.sed healingly a warm, great, G.o.d-like hand.
I was drawn up to him, From my frail feet fell the last grains of sand.
Then haste and darkness stooped and made me theirs; Deep handed me to deep;...
I faded then as names fade from men"s prayers,-- As a sigh from lips at last made friends with sleep.
But the same hand that bore me from the sea, Waking me tenderly, Bound me to a rough stranger of my race,-- Me weary and pale to him and him to me.
I turned my piteous face Aside ashamed; I struggled to be free.
I slept, I dreamed, I woke to that embrace! ...
Sweet tides stole through my veins, Strange fires and thrills and pains; To my cold lips the bloom crept back once more I glowed as a bride glows; I watched the days with delicate hands restore My kinship with the rose.
About my throat my hair went like a flame,
My brows were wreathed, in purple I was dressed, I bore a new bride"s name, A great star burned my breast.
No longer bound, I leaned the same sweet way As even a great Queen may Towards her lover. Now astonished I Who was a beggar stand obediently Beside Cophetua.
IN THE ORCHARD.
"I thought you loved me." "No, it was only fun."
"When we stood there, closer than all?" "Well, the harvest moon "Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head."
"That made you?" "Yes." "Just the moon and the light it made "Under the tree?" "Well, your mouth, too." "Yes, my mouth?"
"And the quiet there that sang like the drum in the booth.
"You shouldn"t have danced like that." "Like what?" "So close, "With your head turned up, and the flower in your hair, a rose "That smelt all warm." "I loved you. I thought you knew "I wouldn"t have danced like that with any but you."
"I didn"t know. I thought you knew it was fun."
"I thought it was love you meant." "Well, it"s done." "Yes, it"s done.
"I"ve seen boys stone a blackbird, and watched them drown "A kitten ... it clawed at the reeds, and they pushed it down "Into the pool while it screamed. Is that fun, too?"
"Well, boys are like that ... Your brothers..." "Yes, I know.
"But you, so lovely and strong! Not you! Not you!"
"They don"t understand it"s cruel. It"s only a game."
"And are girls fun, too?" "No, still in a way it"s the same.
"It"s queer and lovely to have a girl..." "Go on."
"It makes you mad for a bit to feel she"s your own, "And you laugh and kiss her, and maybe you give her a ring, "But it"s only in fun." "But I gave you everything."
"Well, you shouldn"t have done it. You know what a fellow thinks "When a girl does that." "Yes, he talks of her over his drinks "And calls her a--" "Stop that now. I thought you knew."
"But it wasn"t with anyone else. It was only you."
"How did I know? I thought you wanted it too.
"I thought you were like the rest. Well, what"s to be done?"
"To be done?" "Is it all right?" "Yes." "Sure?" "Yes, but why?"
"I don"t know. I thought you were going to cry.
"You said you had something to tell me." "Yes, I know.
"It wasn"t anything really ... I think I"ll go."
"Yes, it"s late. There"s thunder about, a drop of rain "Fell on my hand in the dark. I"ll see you again "At the dance next week. You"re sure that everything"s right?"
"Yes." "Well, I"ll be going." "Kiss me..." "Good night." ...
"Good night."
THE WOOD AND THE Sh.o.r.e.
The low bay melts into a ring of silver, And slips it on the sh.o.r.e"s reluctant finger, Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble, Forsaking her because the moon persuades him.
But the black wood that leans and sighs above her No hour can change, no moon can slave nor summon.
Then comes the dark; on sleepy, sh.e.l.l-strewn beaches, O"er long, pale leagues of sand, and cold, clear water She hears the tide go out towards the moonlight.
The wood still leans ... weeping she turns to seek him, And his black hair all night is on her bosom.
THE TRYST.
I raised the veil, I loosed the bands, I took the dead thing from its place.
Like a warm stream in frozen lands My lips went wandering on her face, My hands burnt in her hands.
She could not stay me, being dead; Her body here was mine to hold.
What if her lips had lost their red?
To me they always tasted cold With the cold words she said.
Did my breath run along her hair, And free the pulse, and fire the brain, My wild blood wake her wild blood there?
Her eyelids lifted wide again In a blue, sudden stare.
Beneath my fierce, profane caress The whole white length of body moved; The drowsy bosom seemed to press As if against a breast beloved, Then fail for weariness.
No, not that anguish! Christ forbid That I should raise such dead! I rose, Stifled the mouth with lilies, hid Those eyes, and drew the long hair close, And shut the coffin lid.
My cold brow on the cold wood laid, Quiet and close to-night we lie.
No cruel words her lips have said.
I shall not take nor she deny.
The dead is with the dead.
LEDA.
_Do you remember, Leda?_