Part 2
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.
V
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.
VI
_Bluebeard_
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.
SECTION TWO
I
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!
II
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
_Recuerdo_
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.
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.
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.
_Thursday_
And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday-- So much is true.
And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,--yes--but what Is that to me?
_To the Not Impossible Him_
How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo and Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way?
Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose?
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!
_The Singing-Woman from the Wood’s Edge_
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?
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?
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,
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!
After all’s said and after all’s done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
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.
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!
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!
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?”
With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am?
_Humoresque_
“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.)
“Little does she guess to-day What the world may be,” they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover.)
_She is Overheard Singing_
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!
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!
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;
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;”
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,
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!
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,--
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;
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,
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!
_The Unexplorer_
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.)
_Grown-Up_
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?
_The Penitent_
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!”
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!
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!”
_Daphne_
Why do you follow me?-- Any moment I can be Nothing but a laurel-tree.
Any moment of the chase I can leave you in my place A pink bough for your embrace.
Yet if over hill and hollow, Still it is your will to follow, I am off;--to heel, Apollo!
_Portrait by a Neighbour_
Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun!
It’s long after midnight Her key’s in the lock, And you never see her chimney smoke Till past ten o’clock!
She digs in her garden With a shovel and a spoon, She weeds her lazy lettuce By the light of the moon.
She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream, She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream!
Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s lace!
_The Merry Maid_
Oh, I am grown so free from care Since my heart broke! I set my throat against the air, I laugh at simple folk!
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!
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!
_To S. M._
_If he should lie a-dying_
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.
_The Philosopher_
And what are you that, wanting you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake?
And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall?
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?
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?
_Four Sonnets_
I
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!)
II
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.
III
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.
IV
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.
SECTION THREE
_Spring_
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.
_City Trees_
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.
And people standing in their shade Out of a shower, undoubtedly Would hear such music as is made Upon a country tree.
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.
_The Blue-Flag in the Bog_
God had called us, and we came; Our loved Earth to ashes left; Heaven was a neighbour’s house, Open flung to us, bereft.
Gay the lights of Heaven showed, And ’twas God Who walked ahead; Yet I wept along the road, Wanting my own house instead.
Wept unseen, unheeded cried, “All you things my eyes have kissed, Fare you well! We meet no more, Lovely, lovely tattered mist!
Weary wings that rise and fall All day long above the fire!”-- Red with heat was every wall, Rough with heat was every wire--
“Fare you well, you little winds That the flying embers chase! Fare you well, you shuddering day, With your hands before your face!
And, ah, blackened by strange blight, Or to a false sun unfurled, Now for evermore good-bye, All the gardens in the world!
On the windless hills of Heaven, That I have no wish to see, White, eternal lilies stand, By a lake of ebony.
But the Earth forevermore Is a place where nothing grows,-- Dawn will come, and no bud break; Evening, and no blossom close.
Spring will come, and wander slow Over an indifferent land, Stand beside an empty creek, Hold a dead seed in her hand.”
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.
“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?
Withered grass,--the wasted growing! Aimless ache of laden boughs!” Little things God had forgotten Called me, from my burning house.
“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.”
“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.”
It was God Who walked ahead, Like a shepherd to the fold; In His footsteps fared the weak, And the weary and the old,
Glad enough of gladness over, Ready for the peace to be,-- But a thing God had forgotten Was the growing bones of me.
And I drew a bit apart, And I lagged a bit behind, And I thought on Peace Eternal, Lest He look into my mind;
And I gazed upon the sky, And I thought of Heavenly Rest,-- And I slipped away like water Through the fingers of the blest!
All their eyes were fixed on Glory, Not a glance brushed over me; “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Up the road,--and I was free.
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.
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;
And the timbered mountain-top Was as naked as a skull,-- Nothing left, nothing left, Of the Earth so beautiful!
“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?
“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!”
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.
And I waited for a sign;-- Coals and cinders, nothing more; And a little cloud of smoke Floating on a valley floor.
And I peered into the smoke Till it rotted, like a fog:-- There, encompassed round by fire, Stood a blue-flag in a bog!
Little flames came wading out, Straining, draining towards its stem, But it was so blue and tall That it scorned to think of them!
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!
All my heart became a tear, All my soul became a tower, Never loved I anything As I loved that tall blue flower!
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;
On its roots like iron claws Rearing up so blue and tall,-- It was all the gallant Earth With its back against a wall!
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!
Crumbling stones and sliding sand Is the road to Heaven now; Icy at my straining knees Drags the awful under-tow;
Soon but stepping-stones of dust Will the road to Heaven be,-- Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Reach a hand and rescue me!
“There--there, my blue-flag flower; Hush--hush--go to sleep; That is only God you hear, Counting up His folded sheep!
Lullabye--lullabye-- That is only God that calls, Missing me, seeking me, Ere the road to nothing falls!
He will set His mighty feet Firmly on the sliding sand; Like a little frightened bird I will creep into His hand;
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.
Lullabye--lullabye--” Rocks the burnt-out planet free!-- Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Reach a hand and rescue me!
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!
And upon my heart asleep All the things I ever knew!-- “Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, For a flower so tall and blue?”
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.
_Eel-Grass_
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.
_Elegy before Death_
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;
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.
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;
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.
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!
_The Bean-Stalk_
Ho, Giant! This is I! I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! La,--but it’s lovely, up so high!
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!--
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!
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!
_Weeds_
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.
Daisies spring from damnèd seeds, And this red fire that here I see Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, Cursed by farmers thriftily.
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.
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.
_Passer Mortuus Est_
Death devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness,--presently Every bed is narrow.
Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation, And the little petulant hand Is an annotation.
After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
_Pastoral_
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!