PART ONE

BIRTH-MOMENT

Behold her, Running through the waves, Eager to reach the land: The water laps her, Healthy, brine-drenched and young, Behold Desire new-born;-- Desire on first fulfilment's radiant edge, Love at miraculous moment of emergence, This is she, Who running, Hastens, hastens to the land.

Look . . . Look . . . Her brown gold hair and lucent eyes of youth, Her body rose and ivory in the sun . . . Look, How she hastens, Running, running to the land.

Her hands are yearning and her feet are swift To reach and hold She knows not what, Yet knows that it is life; Need urges her, Self, uncomprehended but most deep divined, Unwilled but all-compelling, drives her on. Life runs to life. She who longs, But hath not yet accepted or bestowed, All virginal dear and bright, Runs, runs to reach the land.

And she who runs shall be Married to blue of summer skies at noon, Companion to green fields, Held bride of subtle fragrance and of all sweet sound, Belovéd of the stars, And wanton mistress to the veering winds.

Oh, breathless space between: Womb-time just passed, Dark-hidden, chaotic-formative, unpersonal, And individual life of fresh-created force Not yet begun: One moment more Before desire shall meet desire And new creation start: Oh breathless space, While she, Just risen from the waves, Runs, runs to reach the land.

(Ah, keenest personal moment When mouth unkissed turns eager-slow and tremulous Towards lover's mouth, That tremulous and eager-slow Droops down to it: But breathless space of breath or two Lies in between Before the mouth upturned and mouth down-drooped Shall meet and make the kiss.)

Look . . . Look . . . She runs . . . Love fresh-emerged, Desire new-born . . . Blown on by wind, And shone on by the sun, She rises from the waves And running, Hastens, hastens to the land.

Belovéd and Belovéd and Belovéd, Even so right And beautiful and undenied Is my desire; Even so longing-swift I run to your receiving arms. O Aphrodite! O Aphrodite, hear! Hear my wrung cry flame upward poignant-glad. . . . This is my time for me. I too am young; I too am all of love!

1905.

THE MOTHER EXULTANT

Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment, In my heart is the sound of laughter, And my feet dance to the time of it; Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder, Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days, For this is the hour of the vintage, When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

Look, little son, look; The grapes are translucent and ripe, They are heavy and fragrant with juice, They wait for the hands of the vintagers; For a long time the grapes were not, And were in the womb of the earth, Then out of the heavens came the rain, The sun sent down his warmth from the sky, At the touch of life, life stirred, And the earth brought forth her fruits in due season.

I was a maid and alone, When, behold, there came to me a vision; My heart cried out within me, And the voice was the voice of God. Yea, a virgin I dreamed of love, And I was troubled and sore afraid, I wept and was glad, For the word of my heart named me blesséd, My soul exalted the might of creation. I was a maid and alone, When, behold, my lover came to me, My belovéd held me in his arms.

Joy! Joy! Joy! Now is the vision fulfilled: I have conceived, I have carried in my womb, I have brought forth The life of the world; Out of my joy and my pain, Out of the fulness of my living Hath my son gained his life.

Look, little son, look; The grapes are ripe for the gathering, The fresh, deep earth is in them, And clean water from the clouds. And golden, golden sun is in the heart of the grapes. Look, little son, look; The earth, your mother, And the touch of life who is your father, They have provided food for you That you also may live.

The vineyards are planted on the hillside, They are the vineyards of my belovéd, He chose a favorable spot, His hands prepared the soil for the planting: He set out the young vines And cared for them till the time of their bearing. Now is his labour fulfilled who worked with God. The fruit of the vineyard is ripe, The vintagers laugh in the sun, They sing while they gather the grapes, For the vintage is a good one, The wine vats are pressed down and running over.

Joy! Joy! Joy! Now is the wonder accomplished; Out of the heart of the living grape Hath the hand of my belovéd Wrung the wine of the dream of life.

Belovéd, My little son's father, Together we have given life, And the vision of life; Shall we not rejoice Who have made eternal The days of our living?

Look, little son, look: The grapes glow with rich juice, The juice of the grape hath in it The substance of the earth, And the air's breath; It hath in it the soul of the vintage. Put forth your hand, little son, And take for yourself the life That your father and your mother Have provided for you.

Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment, In my heart is the sound of laughter, And my feet dance to the time of it; Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder, Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days, For this is the hour of the vintage, When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

1905.

JOHN KEATS

Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and With dumb, wide look Thou, impotent, dost feel Impotence creeping on Thy potent soul. Yea, now, caught in The aghast and voiceless pain Of death, thyself doth watch Thyself becoming naught. Peace . . . Peace . . . for at The last is comfort. Lo, now Thou hast no pain. Lo, now The waited presence is Within the room; the voice Speaks final-gentle: "Child, Ever thy careful nurse, I lift thee in my arms For greater ease and while Thy heart still beats, place my Cool fingers of oblivion on Thine eyes and close them for Eternity. Thou shalt Pass sleeping, nor know When sleeping ceases. Yet still A little while thy breathing lasts, Gradual is faint and fainter; I Must listen close--the end."

Rest. And you others . . . All. Grave-fellows in Green place. Here grows Memorial every spring's Fresh grass and here Your marking monument Was built for you long, long Ago when Caius Cestius died.

CINQUAINS 1911-1913

NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

RELEASE

With swift Great sweep of her Magnificent arm my pain Clanged back the doors that shut my soul From life.

TRIAD

These be Three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead.

SNOW

Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent The snow!

ANGUISH

Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then weep! Then weep!

TRAPPED

Well and If day on day Follows, and weary year On year . . . and ever days and years . . . Well?

MOON-SHADOWS

Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.

SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS

"Why do You thus devise Evil against her?" "For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore."

YOUTH

But me They cannot touch, Old Age and death . . . the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

THE GUARDED WOUND

If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it were, Too heavy!

WINTER

The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land . . . alack, The little people in the hills Will die!

NIGHT WINDS

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

ARBUTUS

Not Spring's Thou art, but her's, Most cool, most virginal, Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows Rose-tinged.

ROMA AETERNA

The sun Is warm to-day, O Romulus, and on Thine olden Palatine the birds Still sing.

"HE'S KILLED THE MAY . . ."

_"He's killed the May and he's laid her by To bear the red rose company."_

Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart's Shed blood.

AMAZE

I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.

SHADOW

A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly . . . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing'd.

MADNESS

Burdock, Blue aconite, And thistle and thorn . . . of these, Singing, I wreathe my pretty wreath O'death.

THE WARNING

Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold?

SAYING OF IL HABOUL

_Guardian of the Treasure of Solomon And Keeper of the Prophet's Armour_

My tent A vapour that The wind dispels and but As dust before the wind am I Myself.

FATE DEFIED

As it Were tissue of silver I'll wear, O fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.

LAUREL IN THE BERKSHIRES

Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I'll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun's Gold flood.

NIAGARA

_Seen on a Night in November_

How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumnal, evanescent, wan, The moon.

THE GRAND CANYON

By Zeus! Shout word of this To the eldest dead! Titans, Gods, Heroes, come who have once more A home!

NOW BARABBAS WAS A ROBBER

No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . . . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!

FOR LUCAS CRANACH's _EVE_

Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and So young?

THE SOURCE

Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings,--mocking And sweet:

BLUE HYACINTHS

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.