Chapter 2

I think, if they told me so I could convulse the heavens with my horror. I think I could alter the frame of things in my agony. I think I could break the System with my heart. I think, in my convulsion, the skies would break.

She too suffers. But who could compel her, if she chose me against them all? She has not chosen me finally, she suspends her choice. Night folk, Tuatha De Danaan, dark Gods, govern her sleep, Magnificent ghosts of the darkness, carry off her decision in sleep, Leave her no choice, make her lapse me-ward, make her, Oh Gods of the living Darkness, powers of Night.

WOLFRATSHAUSEN

_HUMILIATION_

I HAVE been so innerly proud, and so long alone, Do not leave me, or I shall break. Do not leave me.

What should I do if you were gone again So soon? What should I look for? Where should I go? What should I be, I myself, "I"? What would it mean, this I?

Do not leave me.

What should I think of death? If I died, it would not be you: It would be simply the same Lack of you. The same want, life or death, Unfulfilment, The same insanity of space You not there for me.

Think, I daren't die For fear of the lack in death. And I daren't live.

Unless there were a morphine or a drug.

I would bear the pain. But always, strong, unremitting It would make me not me. The thing with my body that would go on living Would not be me. Neither life nor death could help.

Think, I couldn't look towards death Nor towards the future: Only not look. Only myself Stand still and bind and blind myself.

God, that I have no choice! That my own fulfilment is up against me Timelessly! The burden of self-accomplishment! The charge of fulfilment! And God, that she is _necessary!_ _Necessary,_ and I have no choice!

Do not leave me.

_A YOUNG WIFE_

THE pain of loving you Is almost more than I can bear.

I walk in fear of you. The darkness starts up where You stand, and the night comes through Your eyes when you look at me.

Ah never before did I see The shadows that live in the sun!

Now every tall glad tree Turns round its back to the sun And looks down on the ground, to see The shadow it used to shun.

At the foot of each glowing thing A night lies looking up.

Oh, and I want to sing And dance, but I can't lift up My eyes from the shadows: dark They lie spilt round the cup.

What is it?--Hark The faint fine seethe in the air!

Like the seething sound in a shell! It is death still seething where The wild-flower shakes its bell And the sky lark twinkles blue--

The pain of loving you Is almost more than I can bear.

_GREEN_

THE dawn was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in the sun, The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers undone For the first time, now for the first time seen.

ICKING

_RIVER ROSES_

BY the Isar, in the twilight We were wandering and singing, By the Isar, in the evening We climbed the huntsman's ladder and sat swinging In the fir-tree overlooking the marshes, While river met with river, and the ringing Of their pale-green glacier water filled the evening.

By the Isar, in the twilight We found the dark wild roses Hanging red at the river; and simmering Frogs were singing, and over the river closes Was savour of ice and of roses; and glimmering Fear was abroad. We whispered: "No one knows us. Let it be as the snake disposes Here in this simmering marsh."

KLOSTER SCHAEFTLARN

_GLOIRE DE DIJON_

WHEN she rises in the morning I linger to watch her; She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window And the sunbeams catch her Glistening white on the shoulders, While down her sides the mellow Golden shadow glows as She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts Sway like full-blown yellow Gloire de Dijon roses.

She drips herself with water, and her shoulders Glisten as silver, they crumple up Like wet and falling roses, and I listen For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals. In the window full of sunlight Concentrates her golden shadow Fold on fold, until it glows as Mellow as the glory roses.

ICKING

_ROSES ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE_

JUST a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the cloth Float like boats on a river, while other Roses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.

She laughs at me across the table, saying I am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young roses And suddenly realise, in them as in me, How lovely the present is that this day discloses.

_I AM LIKE A ROSE_

I AM myself at last; now I achieve My very self. I, with the wonder mellow, Full of fine warmth, I issue forth in clear And single me, perfected from my fellow.

Here I am all myself. No rose-bush heaving Its limpid sap to culmination, has brought Itself more sheer and naked out of the green In stark-clear roses, than I to myself am brought.

_ROSE OF ALL THE WORLD_

I AM here myself; as though this heave of effort At starting other life, fulfilled my own: Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown

By all the blood of the rose-bush into being-- Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly To bring together two strange sparks, beget

Another life from our lives, so should send The innermost fire of my own dim soul out- spinning And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me! That my completion of manhood should be the beginning

Another life from mine! For so it looks. The seed is purpose, blossom accident. The seed is all in all, the blossom lent To crown the triumph of this new descent.

Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so? The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire Fans out your petals for excess of flame, Till all your being smokes with fine desire?

Or are we kindled, you and I, to be One rose of wonderment upon the tree Of perfect life, and is our possible seed But the residuum of the ecstasy?

How will you have it?--the rose is all in all, Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall? The sharp begetting, or the child begot? Our consummation matters, or does it not?

To me it seems the seed is just left over From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience; Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.

Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive; For me it is more than enough if the flower un- close.

_A YOUTH MOWING_

THERE are four men mowing down by the Isar; I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I Am sorry for what's in store.

The first man out of the four that's mowing Is mine, I claim him once and for all; Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing None of the trouble he's led to stall.

As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts His head as proud as a deer that looks Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes His scythe-blade bright, unhooks

The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me. Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.

_QUITE FORSAKEN_

WHAT pain, to wake and miss you! To wake with a tightened heart, And mouth reaching forward to kiss you!

This then at last is the dawn, and the bell Clanging at the farm! Such bewilderment Comes with the sight of the room, I cannot tell.

It is raining. Down the half-obscure road Four labourers pass with their scythes Dejectedly;--a huntsman goes by with his load:

A gun, and a bunched-up deer, its four little feet Clustered dead.--And this is the dawn For which I wanted the night to retreat!

_FORSAKEN AND FORLORN_

THE house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone. From the balcony I can hear the Isar moan, Can see the white Rift of the river eerily, between the pines, under a sky of stone.

Some fireflies drift through the middle air Tinily. I wonder where Ends this darkness that annihilates me.

_FIREFLIES IN THE CORN_

_She speaks._ Look at the little darlings in the corn! The rye is taller than you, who think yourself So high and mighty: look how the heads are borne Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of knights Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

Knights indeed!--much knight I know will ride With his head held high-serene against the sky! Limping and following rather at my side Moaning for me to love him!--Oh darling rye How I adore you for your simple pride!

And the dear, dear fireflies wafting in between And over the swaying corn-stalks, just above All the dark-feathered helmets, like little green Stars come low and wandering here for love Of these dark knights, shedding their delicate sheen!

I thank you I do, you happy creatures, you dears Riding the air, and carrying all the time Your little lanterns behind you! Ah, it cheers My soul to see you settling and trying to climb The corn-stalks, tipping with fire the spears.

All over the dim corn's motion, against the blue Dark sky of night, a wandering glitter, a swarm Of questing brilliant souls going out with their true Proud knights to battle! Sweet, how I warm My poor, my perished soul with the sight of you!

_A DOE AT EVENING_

As I went through the marshes a doe sprang out of the corn and flashed up the hill-side leaving her fawn.

On the sky-line she moved round to watch, she pricked a fine black blotch on the sky.

I looked at her and felt her watching; I became a strange being. Still, I had my right to be there with her,

Her nimble shadow trotting along the sky-line, she put back her fine, level-balanced head. And I knew her.

Ah yes, being male, is not my head hard-balanced, antlered? Are not my haunches light? Has she not fled on the same wind with me? Does not my fear cover her fear?

IRSCHENHAUSEN

_SONG OF A MAN WHO IS NOT LOVED_

THE space of the world is immense, before me and around me; If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling space surround me; Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water, space frightens and confounds me.

I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonder What effect I can have. My hands wave under The heavens like specks of dust that are floating asunder.

I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowing Me like a gadfly into the dusk, without my know- ing Whither or why or even how I am going.

So much there is outside me, so infinitely Small am I, what matter if minutely I beat my way, to be lost immediately?

How shall I flatter myself that I can do Anything in such immensity? I am too Little to count in the wind that drifts me through.

GLASHÜTTE

_SINNERS_

THE big mountains sit still in the afternoon light Shadows in their lap; The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with de- light.

We sitting here among the cranberries So still in the gap Of rock, distilling our memories

Are sinners! Strange! The bee that blunders Against me goes off with a laugh. A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and wonders

What about sin?--For, it seems The mountains have No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of dreams

As they ought to have. They rise above us Dreaming For ever. One even might think that they love us.

_Little red cranberries cheek to cheek, Two great dragon-flies wrestling; You, with your forehead nestling Against me, and bright peak shining to peak--_

There's a love-song for you!--Ah, if only There were no teeming Swarms of mankind in the world, and we were less lonely!

MAYRHOFEN

_MISERY_

OUT of this oubliette between the mountains five valleys go, five passes like gates; three of them black in shadow, two of them bright with distant sunshine; and sunshine fills one high valley bed, green grass shining, and little white houses like quartz crystals, little, but distinct a way off.

Why don't I go? Why do I crawl about this pot, this oubliette, stupidly? Why don't I go?

But where? If I come to a pine-wood, I can't say Now I am arrived! What are so many straight trees to me!

STERZING

_SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN ITALY_

THE man and the maid go side by side With an interval of space between; And his hands are awkward and want to hide, She braves it out since she must be seen.

When some one passes he drops his head Shading his face in his black felt hat, While the hard girl hardens; nothing is said, There is nothing to wonder or cavil at.

Alone on the open road again With the mountain snows across the lake Flushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable, The loneliness daunts them, their stiff throats ache.

And he sighs with relief when she parts from him; Her proud head held in its black silk scarf Gone under the archway, home, he can join The men that lounge in a group on the wharf.

His evening is a flame of wine Among the eager, cordial men. And she with her women hot and hard Moves at her ease again.

_She is marked, she is singled out For the fire: The brand is upon him, look--you, Of desire.

They are chosen, ah, they are fated For the fight! Champion her, all you women! Men, menfolk Hold him your light!

Nourish her, train her, harden her Women all! Fold him, be good to him, cherish him Men, ere he fall.

Women, another champion! This, men, is yours! Wreathe and enlap and anoint them Behind separate doors._

GARGNANO

_WINTER DAWN_

GREEN star Sirius Dribbling over the lake; The stars have gone so far on their road, Yet we're awake!

Without a sound The new young year comes in And is half-way over the lake. We must begin

Again. This love so full Of hate has hurt us so, We lie side by side Moored--but no,

Let me get up And wash quite clean Of this hate.-- So green

The great star goes! I am washed quite clean, Quite clean of it all. But e'en

So cold, so cold and clean Now the hate is gone! It is all no good, I am chilled to the bone

Now the hate is gone; There is nothing left; I am pure like bone, Of all feeling bereft.

_A BAD BEGINNING_

THE yellow sun steps over the mountain-top And falters a few short steps across the lake-- Are you awake?

See, glittering on the milk-blue, morning lake They are laying the golden racing-track of the sun; The day has begun.

The sun is in my eyes, I must get up. I want to go, there's a gold road blazes before My breast--which is so sore.

What?--your throat is bruised, bruised with my kisses? Ah, but if I am cruel what then are you? I am bruised right through.

What if I love you!--This misery Of your dissatisfaction and misprision Stupefies me.

Ah yes, your open arms! Ah yes, ah yes, You would take me to your breast!--But no, You should come to mine, It were better so.

Here I am--get up and come to me! Not as a visitor either, nor a sweet And winsome child of innocence; nor As an insolent mistress telling my pulse's beat.

Come to me like a woman coming home To the man who is her husband, all the rest Subordinate to this, that he and she Are joined together for ever, as is best.

Behind me on the lake I hear the steamer drum- ming From Austria. There lies the world, and here Am I. Which way are you coming?

_WHY DOES SHE WEEP?_

HUSH then why do you cry? It's you and me the same as before.

If you hear a rustle it's only a rabbit gone back to his hole in a bustle.

If something stirs in the branches overhead, it will be a squirrel moving uneasily, disturbed by the stress of our loving.

Why should you cry then? Are you afraid of God in the dark?

I'm not afraid of God. Let him come forth. If he is hiding in the cover let him come forth.

Now in the cool of the day it is we who walk in the trees and call to God "Where art thou?" And it is he who hides.

Why do you cry? My heart is bitter. Let God come forth to justify himself now.

Why do you cry? Is it Wehmut, ist dir weh? Weep then, yea for the abomination of our old righteousness,

We have done wrong many times; but this time we begin to do right.

Weep then, weep for the abomination of our past righteousness. God will keep hidden, he won't come forth.

_GIORNO DEI MORTI_

ALONG the avenue of cypresses All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen go the chanting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

And all along the path to the cemetery The round dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

The coming of the chanting choristers Between the avenue of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.

_ALL SOULS_

THEY are chanting now the service of All the Dead And the village folk outside in the burying ground Listen--except those who strive with their dead, Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite to touch them: Those villagers isolated at the grave Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the painted wreaths Are propped on end, there, where the mystery starts.

The naked candles burn on every grave. On your grave, in England, the weeds grow.

But I am your naked candle burning, And that is not your grave, in England, The world is your grave. And my naked body standing on your grave Upright towards heaven is burning off to you Its flame of life, now and always, till the end.

It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls' Day.

I forget you, have forgotten you. I am busy only at my burning, I am busy only at my life. But my feet are on your grave, planted. And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes up To the other world, where you are now. But I am not concerned with you. I have forgotten you.

I am a naked candle burning on your grave.

_LADY WIFE_

AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner At the hearth; I know right well the marriage ring you wear, And what it's worth.

The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed In his house awhile; So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happily Condescend to be vile.

I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovely Angel in disguise. I see right well how I ought to be grateful, Smitten with reverent surprise.

Listen, I have no use For so rare a visit; Mine is a common devil's Requisite.

Rise up and go, I have no use for you And your blithe, glad mien. No angels here, for me no goddesses, Nor any Queen.

Put ashes on your head, put sackcloth on And learn to serve. You have fed me with your sweetness, now I am sick, As I deserve.

Queens, ladies, angels, women rare, I have had enough. Put sackcloth on, be crowned with powdery ash, Be common stuff.

And serve now woman, serve, as a woman should, Implicitly. Since I must serve and struggle with the imminent Mystery.

Serve then, I tell you, add your strength to mine Take on this doom. What are you by yourself, do you think, and what The mere fruit of your womb?

What is the fruit of your womb then, you mother, you queen, When it falls to the ground? Is it more than the apples of Sodom you scorn so, the men Who abound?

Bring forth the sons of your womb then, and put them Into the fire Of Sodom that covers the earth; bring them forth From the womb of your precious desire.

You woman most holy, you mother, you being beyond Question or diminution, Add yourself up, and your seed, to the nought Of your last solution.

_BOTH SIDES OF THE MEDAL_

AND because you love me think you you do not hate me? Ha, since you love me to ecstasy it follows you hate me to ecstasy.

Because when you hear me go down the road outside the house you must come to the window to watch me go, do you think it is pure worship?

Because, when I sit in the room, here, in my own house, and you want to enlarge yourself with this friend of mine, such a friend as he is, yet you cannot get beyond your awareness of me you are held back by my being in the same world with you, do you think it is bliss alone? sheer harmony?

No doubt if I were dead, you must reach into death after me, but would not your hate reach even more madly than your love? your impassioned, unfinished hate?

Since you have a passion for me, as I for you, does not that passion stand in your way like a Balaam's ass? and am I not Balaam's ass golden-mouthed occasionally? But mostly, do you not detest my bray?

Since you are confined in the orbit of me do you not loathe the confinement? Is not even the beauty and peace of an orbit an intolerable prison to you, as it is to everybody?

But we will learn to submit each of us to the balanced, eternal orbit wherein we circle on our fate in strange conjunction.

What is chaos, my love? It is not freedom. A disarray of falling stars coming to nought.

_LOGGERHEADS_

PLEASE yourself how you have it. Take my words, and fling Them down on the counter roundly; See if they ring.

Sift my looks and expressions, And see what proportion there is Of sand in my doubtful sugar Of verities.

Have a real stock-taking Of my manly breast; Find out if I'm sound or bankrupt, Or a poor thing at best.

For I am quite indifferent To your dubious state, As to whether you've found a fortune In me, or a flea-bitten fate.

Make a good investigation Of all that is there, And then, if it's worth it, be grateful-- If not then despair.

If despair is our portion Then let us despair. Let us make for the weeping willow. I don't care.

_DECEMBER NIGHT_

TAKE off your cloak and your hat And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth Where never woman sat.

I have made the fire up bright; Let us leave the rest in the dark And sit by firelight.

The wine is warm in the hearth; The flickers come and go. I will warm your feet with kisses Until they glow.

_NEW YEAR'S EVE_

THERE are only two things now, The great black night scooped out And this fire-glow.

This fire-glow, the core, And we the two ripe pips That are held in store.

Listen, the darkness rings As it circulates round our fire. Take off your things.

Your shoulders, your bruised throat Your breasts, your nakedness! This fiery coat!

As the darkness flickers and dips, As the firelight falls and leaps From your feet to your lips!

_NEW YEAR'S NIGHT_

Now you are mine, to-night at last I say it; You're a dove I have bought for sacrifice, And to-night I slay it.

Here in my arms my naked sacrifice! Death, do you hear, in my arms I am bringing My offering, bought at great price.

She's a silvery dove worth more than all I've got. Now I offer her up to the ancient, inexorable God, Who knows me not.

Look, she's a wonderful dove, without blemish or spot! I sacrifice all in her, my last of the world, Pride, strength, all the lot.

All, all on the altar! And death swooping down Like a falcon. 'Tis God has taken the victim; I have won my renown.

_VALENTINE'S NIGHT_

You shadow and flame, You interchange, You death in the game!

Now I gather you up, Now I put you back Like a poppy in its cup.

And so, you are a maid Again, my darling, but new, Unafraid.

My love, my blossom, a child Almost! The flower in the bud Again, undefiled.

And yet, a woman, knowing All, good, evil, both In one blossom blowing.

_BIRTH NIGHT_

THIS fireglow is a red womb In the night, where you're folded up On your doom.

And the ugly, brutal years Are dissolving out of you, And the stagnant tears.

I the great vein that leads From the night to the source of you, Which the sweet blood feeds.

New phase in the germ of you; New sunny streams of blood Washing you through.

You are born again of me. I, Adam, from the veins of me The Eve that is to be.

What has been long ago Grows dimmer, we both forget, We no longer know.