Chapter 3

I will ride with you, hunters, even I, Toward a far hill To see the golden stag against the sky Uncaptured still.

To Anne Knish

Madam, you intrigue me!

I have come this far Cautiously sneezing Along the dusty highroad of convention, But now it leads no farther toward you.

Today I have reached the cross roads-- A weather-beaten sign-board Blazons undecipherable wisdom Of which the arrow-heads, even, Have been effaced.

Eastward, it leads through cultivated fields Of intellectual fodder, Where well-fed cattle, herding together, Browse content: Are you of these?

Westward, is a lane, hedge-bordered, Shady, and of gentle indirection, In May, a bower of sentimental bloom, But this November weather Betrays its destiny, the poultry yard Where geese foregather.

And there ahead, the ancient, swampy way Modernized by a feeble plank or two: But the morass of passion lures me not! I see a vision of two plunging feet, Discreetly shod, yet struggling in vain-- Slime Creeps ankle-high, knee-high, thigh-high, Till all is swallowed save a brave silk hat Floating alone, a symbol of the creed I perished shedding.

Yet somewhere you Intelligent of my distress Smile, undisturbed-- I have no pedlar's license to submit, No wares to cry, nor any gift to bring-- I do not know Anything new-- In truth, then, what have I to do with you?

Yet, madam, you intrigue me!

Lolita

How curious to find in you, Lolita, The geisha Who sits and strums in the immortal Attitude of submission. There is a ledger in place of her soul!

Your shoulders sang For admiration, Your hair wept for kisses, Your voice curved softly, a caress-- You came among us as a suppliant, What had we you desired?

Bringing to market stolen goods, Holding to view used charms, Behold a hawker's spirit!

Eagles perch proudly In isolation, They swoop to seize a living prey-- Crows hover to feed, Waiting with patience till the soul is fled Leaving a helpless body--carrion-- (Vile thoughts obsess me!)

What did you want, Lolita?

Spectrum of Mrs. Q.

Fear not, beautiful lady, That I shall ravish you! Your arms are languorous lilies-- There is not a thorn In all your slender greenness, And you are sweet to madden buzzing bees!

Fear not, beautiful lady, A hard, black cricket Inspects you.

Epitaph

Courage is a sword, Honour, but a shield... Here lies a turtle.

A Sixpence

OBVERSE

If I loved you, You would rear Eight healthy children To our love, (Forgetting me) And be happy.

REVERSE

But I do not love you, So you will write Eight hundred poems To our love, (Forgetting me) And be happy!

Three Spectra

Of Mrs. X.

You-- Too well fed for rebellion, Too lazy for self-respect, too timid for murder, Disgracefully steal the trade-mark of the fairy-tale-- "And they lived together happily Ever after!"

Of Mrs. Z.

Madam, you are ever retreating, But are never Gone-- Some day I shall pursue you Hoping to see you Vanish.

Of Mrs. Andsoforth.

Old ladies, bless their hearts, Are contented as house-flies Dozing against the wall. But you, Imprisoned in the forties, Delirious, frenzied, helpless, Are a fly, drowning in a cocktail!

Two Commentaries

I. TO AN ACTOR

You are a gilded card-case Which I took for a purse. Your spirit's coin was squandered long ago, And in its place Are white cards, all alike, Bearing a word, A name, Connoting nothing.

2. PHILOSOPHER TO ARTIST

You are a raisin, but I am a nut! What meat there is to you Can be seen at a glance-- (Seeds, when they exist, are bitter) My calm, round glossiness, (For I am sound and free From wormy restlessness of spirit) Defies your casual inspection.

It takes sharp teeth And some determination To taste my kernel!

A Womanly Woman

You sit, a snug, warm kitten Blinking through the window At a storm-haunted world--

Sleet wind caterwauls Through icy trees, Which clack their hands at you Tauntingly.

Why should you leave Radiator and rubber-plant? Do people stand at attention to mourn a hero When they behold A frozen kitten In a gutter?

Lolita Now Is Old

Lolita now is old, She sits in the park, watching the young men pass And huddles her shawl against the cold.

One night last summer when the moon was red, Lolita, hearing an old song sung And amorous laughter down the street Left her bed-- Lolita thought she was young.

With ancient finery on her back, A lace mantilla hiding her grey head, She crept into the warm and alien night.

Her trembling knees remembered the languid pace Of beauty on adventure bent--her fan Waved challenges with unforgotten grace. Cunningly she played her part For to her peering age Love was a well-remembered art.

Footsteps followed her--footsteps drew near! She dropped a rose--hush, he is here! There came hard arms and a panting kiss--

He felt the fraud of those withered lips, He cursed and spat--"Was it for this, You came, old woman, to the park?" Lolita gathered skirts and fled Through the dim dark.

Lolita huddles her shawl against the cold, She sits and mumbles by the fire. In truth Lolita knows she is old.

The Shining Bird

A bird is three things: Feathers, flight and song, And feathers are the least of these.

At last I hold her in my hands The shining bird whose flight along The perilous rim of trees Has made my days adventurous, my spirit strong.

And now her wings Are still--her vivid song But ceaseless twitterings.

Her words are feathers, falling Lightly, relentlessly, and without rest, Revealing to my face Her pinched and starveling breast Like poultry, dead and unashamed And naked in the market place.

A shattered flash of wings, A broken song, Echo and shine along the rim of trees.

The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere

Queen Guinevere, Three sleek and silent cats Bring you gifts from me.

The first is a grey one, (I wanted a white one, I could not find one snowy white enough, Queen Guinevere,) He brings you purple grapes.

The second is a grey one, (I wanted a sleek one, Where could I find one sleek enough, Queen Guinevere?) He brings you a red apple.

The third one, too, is grey. (I wanted a black one, Not Hate itself could find one black enough, Queen Guinevere,) He brings you poison toadstools.

I send you three grey cats with gifts-- (For uniformity of metaphor, Since Bacchus, Satan, and the Hangman Are not contemporaneous in my mythology) I send you three grey cats with gifts, Queen Guinevere, To warn you, sleekly, silently To pay the forfeit.

Ode in the New Mode

Your face Was a temple From which your soul Came to me beneath arched brows: And my soul knelt at your feet.

Then Inadvertently I saw your leg Curved and turned like a bird-song Dying into ecstatic silence at the garter...

Wretched Women! When you are wholly lovely Man cannot forget either of his two afflictions, Soul, or body!

Night

I opened the door And night stared at me like a fool, Heavy dull night, clouded and safe-- I turned again toward the uncertainties Of life within doors.

Once night was a lion, No, years ago, night was a python Weaving designs against space With undulations of his being-- Night was a siren once.

O sodden, middle-aged night!

End of Project Gutenberg's A Woman of Thirty, by Marjorie Allen Seiffert