Part 3

Oh, grey hill, Where the grazing herd Licks the purple blossom, Crops the spiky weed! Oh, stony pasture, Where the tall mullein Stands up so sturdy On its little seed!

_Assault_

I

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound After a year of silence, else I think I should not so have ventured forth alone At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

II

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk Between me and the crying of the frogs? Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, That am a timid woman, on her way From one house to another!

_Travel_

The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going.

_Low-Tide_

These wet rocks where the tide has been, Barnacled white and weeded brown And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, These wet rocks where the tide went down Will show again when the tide is high Faint and perilous, far from shore, No place to dream, but a place to die,-- The bottom of the sea once more. _There was a child that wandered through A giant’s empty house all day,-- House full of wonderful things and new, But no fit place for a child to play._

_Song of a Second April_

April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day, And shingles lie about the doors; In orchards near and far away The grey woodpecker taps and bores; And men are merry at their chores, And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep, Noisy and swift the small brooks run Among the mullein stalks the sheep Go up the hillside in the sun, Pensively,--only you are gone, You that alone I cared to keep.

_The Poet and his Book_

_Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone, before you bury One sweet bone of mine!_

When shall I be dead? When my flesh is withered, And above my head Yellow pollen gathered All the empty afternoon? When sweet lovers pause and wonder Who am I that lie thereunder, Hidden from the moon?

This my personal death?-- That my lungs be failing To inhale the breath Others are exhaling? This my subtle spirit’s end?-- Ah, when the thawed winter splashes Over these chance dust and ashes, Weep not me, my friend!

Me, by no means dead In that hour, but surely When this book, unread, Rots to earth obscurely, And no more to any breast, Close against the clamorous swelling Of the thing there is no telling, Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould, And a book of many Waiting to be sold For a casual penny, In a little open case, In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spattered From the passing drays,

Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!

When these veins are weeds, When these hollowed sockets Watch the rooty seeds Bursting down like rockets, And surmise the spring again, Or, remote in that black cupboard, Watch the pink worms writhing upward At the smell of rain,

Boys and girls that lie Whispering in the hedges, Do not let me die, Mix me with your pledges; Boys and girls that slowly walk In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, Staring past the pink wild laurel, Mix me with your talk,

Do not let me die! Farmers at your raking, When the sun is high, While the hay is making, When, along the stubble strewn, Withering on their stalks uneaten, Strawberries turn dark and sweeten In the lapse of noon;

Shepherds on the hills, In the pastures, drowsing To the tinkling bells Of the brown sheep browsing; Sailors crying through the storm; Scholars at your study; hunters Lost amid the whirling winter’s Whiteness uniform;

Men that long for sleep; Men that wake and revel;-- If an old song leap To your senses’ level At such moments, may it be Sometimes, though a moment only, Some forgotten, quaint and homely Vehicle of me!

Women at your toil, Women at your leisure Till the kettle boil, Snatch of me your pleasure, Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; Women quiet with your weeping Lest you wake a workman sleeping, Mix me with your grief!

Boys and girls that steal From the shocking laughter Of the old, to kneel By a dripping rafter Under the discoloured eaves, Out of trunks with hingeless covers Lifting tales of saints and lovers, Travellers, goblins, thieves,

Suns that shine by night, Mountains made from valleys,-- Bear me to the light, Flat upon your bellies By the webby window lie, Where the little flies are crawling,-- Read me, margin me with scrawling, Do not let me die!

_Sexton, ply your trade! In a shower of gravel Stamp upon your spade! Many a rose shall ravel, Many a metal wreath shall rust In the rain, and I go singing Through the lots where you are flinging Yellow clay on dust!_

_Alms_

My heart is what it was before, A house where people come and go; But it is winter with your love, The sashes are beset with snow.

I light the lamp and lay the cloth, I blow the coals to blaze again; But it is winter with your love, The frost is thick upon the pane.

I know a winter when it comes: The leaves are listless on the boughs; I watched your love a little while, And brought my plants into the house.

I water them and turn them south, I snap the dead brown from the stem; But it is winter with your love,-- I only tend and water them.

There was a time I stood and watched The small, ill-natured sparrows’ fray; I loved the beggar that I fed, I cared for what he had to say,

I stood and watched him out of sight; To-day I reach around the door And set a bowl upon the step; My heart is what it was before,

But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window,--and the birds May take or leave them, as they will.

_Inland_

People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound

Of water sucking the hollow ledges, Tons of water striking the shore,-- What do they long for, as I long for One salt smell of the sea once more?

People the waves have not awakened, Spanking the boats at the harbour’s head, What do they long for, as I long for,-- Starting up in my inland bed,

Beating the narrow walls, and finding Neither a window nor a door, Screaming to God for death by drowning,-- One salt taste of the sea once more?

_To a Poet that Died Young_

Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days, Strives the poet in your praise, Minstrel, by whose singing side Beauty walked, until you died.

Still, though none should hark again, Drones the blue-fly in the pane, Thickly crusts the blackest moss, Blows the rose its musk across, Floats the boat that is forgot None the less to Camelot.

Many a bard’s untimely death Lends unto his verses breath; Here’s a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young. Minstrel, what is this to you: That a man you never knew, When your grave was far and green, Sat and gossipped with a queen?

Thalia knows how rare a thing Is it, to grow old and sing; When the brown and tepid tide Closes in on every side. Who shall say if Shelley’s gold Had withstood it to grow old?

_Wraith_

“Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?” --Surely it is not I she’s wanting; Someone living here before-- “Nobody’s in the house but me: You may come in if you like and see.”

Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,-- Have you seen her, any of you?-- Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, And the garden showing through?

Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly, Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, Asking something, asking it over, If you get a sound from her.--

Ever see her, any of you?-- Strangest thing I’ve ever known,-- Every night since I moved in, And I came to be alone.

“Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! You may not come in! This is I that you hear rocking; Nobody’s with me, nor has been!”

Curious, how she tried the window,-- Odd, the way she tries the door,-- _Wonder just what sort of people Could have had this house before...._

_Ebb_

I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide, A little tepid pool, Drying inward from the edge.

_Elaine_

Oh, come again to Astolat! I will not ask you to be kind. And you may go when you will go, And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are, Or ask you if you hold me dear, Or trouble you with things for you The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot, So very still the lake shall be, You could not guess--though you should guess-- What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk, The garden-seat so very wide, You needs must think--if you should think-- The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away, I’d watch you for a little while, To see you speak, the way you speak, And smile,--if you should smile.

_Burial_

Mine is a body that should die at sea! And have for a grave, instead of a grave Six feet deep and the length of me, All the water that is under the wave!

And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, Such as a living man might fear, And eat me while I am firm and fresh,-- Not wait till I’ve been dead for a year!

_Mariposa_

Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two.

All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour. Mark the transient butterfly, How he hangs upon the flower.

Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, Death comes in a day or two.

_Doubt no more that Oberon_

Doubt no more that Oberon-- Never doubt that Pan Lived, and played a reed, and ran After nymphs in a dark forest In the merry, credulous days,-- Lived, and led a fairy band Over the indulgent land! Ah, for in this dourest, sorest Age man’s eye has looked upon, Death to fauns and death to fays, Still the dog-wood dares to raise-- Healthy tree, with trunk and root-- Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, And the starlings and the jays-- Birds that cannot even sing-- Dare to come again in spring!

_Lament_

Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I’ll make you little jackets; I’ll make you little trousers From his old pants. There’ll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, And the dead be forgotten; Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why.

_Exiled_

Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness Of the strong wind and shattered spray; Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard, Marking the reach of the winter sea, Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning, Shook the sand from my shoes at night, That now am caught beneath great buildings Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning Under the windy wooden piers, See once again the bobbing barrels, And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, Hear once again the hungry crying Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining Under the turning of the tide, Fear once again the rising freshet, Dread the bell in the fog outside,--

I should be happy,--that was happy All day long on the coast of Maine! I have a need to hold and handle Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy Never at all since I came here. I am too long away from water. I have a need of water near.

_The Death of Autumn_

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,-- Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,--but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?

_Ode to Silence_

Aye, but she? Your other sister and my other soul, Grave Silence, lovelier Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? Clio, not you, Not you, Calliope, Nor all your wanton line, Not Beauty’s perfect self shall comfort me For Silence once departed, For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, Whom evermore I follow wilfully, Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; Thalia, not you, Not you, Melpomene, Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, I seek in this great hall, But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. I seek her from afar. I come from temples where her altars are, From groves that bear her name, Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, And cymbals struck on high and strident faces Obstreperous in her praise They neither love nor know, A goddess of gone days, Departed long ago, Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes Of her old sanctuary, A deity obscure and legendary, Of whom there now remains, For sages to decipher and priests to garble, Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, And the inarticulate snow, Leaving at last of her least signs and traces None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places.

“She will love well,” I said, “If love be of that heart inhabiter, The flowers of the dead; The red anemone that with no sound Moves in the wind, and from another wound That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, That blossoms underground, And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. And will not Silence know In the black shade of what obsidian steep Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? (Seed which Demeter’s daughter bore from home, Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, Reluctant even as she, Undone Persephone, And even as she set out again to grow In twilight, in perdition’s lean and inauspicious loam). She will love well,” I said, “The flowers of the dead; Where dark Persephone the winter round, Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, Stares on the stagnant stream That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, There, there will she be found, She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound.”

“I long for Silence as they long for breath Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; What thing can be So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, Upon whose icy breast, Unquestioned, uncaressed, One time I lay, And whom always I lack, Even to this day, Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, If only she therewith be given me back?”

I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, And in among the bloodless everywhere I sought her, but the air, Breathed many times and spent, Was fretful with a whispering discontent, And questioning me, importuning me to tell Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. I paused at every grievous door, And harked a moment, holding up my hand,--and for a space A hush was on them, while they watched my face; And then they fell a-whispering as before; So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. I sought her, too, Among the upper gods, although I knew She was not like to be where feasting is, Nor near to Heaven’s lord, Being a thing abhorred And shunned of him, although a child of his, (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). Fearing to pass unvisited some place And later learn, too late, how all the while, With her still face, She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, I sought her even to the sagging board whereat The stout immortals sat; But such a laughter shook the mighty hall No one could hear me say: Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? And no one knew at all How long I stood or when at last I sighed and went away.

There is a garden lying in a lull Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, I know not where, but which a dream diurnal Paints on my lids a moment till the hull Be lifted from the kernel And Slumber fed to me. Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, Though it would seem a ruined place and after Your lichenous heart, being full Of broken columns, caryatides Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, And urns funereal altered into dust Minuter than the ashes of the dead, And Psyche’s lamp out of the earth up-thrust, Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead.

There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; But never an echo of your daughters’ laughter Is there, nor any sign of you at all Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! Only her shadow once upon a stone I saw,--and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone.

I tell you you have done her body an ill, You chatterers, you noisy crew! She is not anywhere! I sought her in deep Hell; And through the world as well; I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; Above nor underground Is Silence to be found, That was the very warp and woof of you, Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! Oh, say if on this hill Somewhere your sister’s body lies in death, So I may follow there, and make a wreath Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast Shall lie till age has withered them!

(Ah, sweetly from the rest I see Turn and consider me Compassionate Euterpe!) “There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell,” she saith, “Whereon but to believe is horror! Whereon to meditate engendereth Even in deathless spirits such as I A tumult in the breath, A chilling of the inexhaustible blood Even in my veins that never will be dry, And in the austere, divine monotony That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

This is her province whom you lack and seek; And seek her not elsewhere. Hell is a thoroughfare For pilgrims,--Herakles, And he that loved Euridice too well, Have walked therein; and many more than these; And witnessed the desire and the despair Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; You, too, have entered Hell, And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak None has returned;--for thither fury brings Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there.” Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! Be long upon this height I shall not climb again! I know the way you mean,--the little night, And the long empty day,--never to see Again the angry light, Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain!

Ah, but she, Your other sister and my other soul, She shall again be mine; And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, A chilly thin green wine, Not bitter to the taste, Not sweet, Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,-- To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth-- But savouring faintly of the acid earth, And trod by pensive feet From perfect clusters ripened without haste Out of the urgent heat In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine.

Lift up your lyres! Sing on! But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone.

_Memorial to D. C._

[VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918]

_Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, Where now no more the music is, With hands that wrote you little notes I write you little elegies!_

I

_Epitaph_

Heap not on this mound Roses that she loved so well; Why bewilder her with roses, That she cannot see or smell? She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

II

_Prayer to Persephone_

Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be; Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,--Persephone, Take her head upon your knee; Say to her, “My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here.”

III

_Chorus_

Give away her gowns, Give away her shoes; She has no more use For her fragrant gowns; Take them all down, Blue, green, blue, Lilac, pink, blue, From their padded hangers; She will dance no more In her narrow shoes; Sweep her narrow shoes From the closet floor.

IV

_Elegy_

Let them bury your big eyes In the secret earth securely, Your thin fingers, and your fair, Soft, indefinite-coloured hair,-- All of these in some way, surely, From the secret earth shall rise; Not for these I sit and stare, Broken and bereft completely; Your young flesh that sat so neatly On your little bones will sweetly Blossom in the air.