Part 3
Singing the water rushes past your quiet grave Beneath this little town whose ancient name Suggests the fair collegiate dream and fame Of Oxford and her clustered towers. With wave The river winds a garland for your rest-- The woven sound of grieving without end. To you I bring the memory of a friend And lay these words on your remembered breast.
THE NEST
I
Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one? And is there room at your side? And can you hear the sound of my breath And sorrow that cries like a tide?
II
Oh, may I take your hand, dear one, As the nest enfolds the bird, Lie close to your heart and breast to breast And never a spoken word?
III
What then if the stars be gone, dear one, What then if the wind be still, And words that we spoke long years ago Drift pale and faint and chill?
IV
Our dust shall be warmed by the sun, dear one, Our grief shall fade with the snow; And mingled in spring by sun and rain Our love to a flower blow.
V
Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one? And is there room at your side? And can you hear the sound of my breath And sorrow that cries like a tide?
LOST LOVE
You have her mouth of grief,-- Your parted lips half-shape a moan; You have her brow branded with memory; You have her downcast eyes Brooding like doves above the body’s need; You have her heart of love Where music flows And sorrows nurse.
O Voice of all lost love and agony, Cecilia, Saint, We beg the healing of your breast, Music at our lips And sleep!
“WHEN SPRING”
A BALLAD OF LOVE
I
When spring was in her heart beat, Her lover came from sea; She gave him passion’s lily cup, He gave her thistles three.
II
When spring was in her heart beat, He filled their lily cup With bitter dew and star dust And frozen spray to sup.
III
When spring was in her heart beat, He snared the only star Still racing on her dream path: Now other thistles are!
IV
He said a little tinsel Would serve her last journee, And nailed a glittering handful Upon a willow tree.
V
Now death drags at her heart beat She sees gray branches weep; They drip but ashen starlight, Singing, “Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!”
TWO CANDLES
TO MY MOTHER AT FLEUR DE LYS
I
Two candles place I at her feet, Two candles at her head; These are the gifts that I would bring To my Belovèd Dead.
II
I sought the violet of her eyes, Her eyes were closed in sleep; My love was trembling like a child And could not even weep.
III
I clad her in a purple shroud, Some said it should be white; I said, “The passion of her eyes Found peace in candlelight!”
IV
Sometimes I see her ash-gold hair Shimmer within the night; Sometimes I feel her violet eyes Searching for candlelight.
V
Sometimes I hear her drifting feet That seek from door to door, Guided by star and blowing wind, Dream-shod forevermore.
VI
When will she come again to me Led by the wind and star? She need not even call my name, I could not wander far.
VII
Two candles place I at her feet, Two candles at her head: Remembrance and Oblivion Enfold my lonely dead.
ROSY MILLER
I do not ever remember having seen Rosy Miller; I never met her; Yet lose her I never can. One night at dusk she came down a hill with me, And the stars glowed And all the college buildings were laced with window lights, And beyond them were the dark hills.
It was the speech of a friend that made her live for me-- She was living then--, Rosy Miller, who gave and gave, Who, a child still, had learned the whole meaning of life, Who asked nothing, Who never held a hand out mendicant to others.
That was three years ago, that hour at dusk, And now they say she is dead. But that is a mistake: Even for me who never knew her she still lives.
HIS NAME
He loved men with a great soul’s deepest love; He saw in them truth, hope, the very flame Of constancy. And then alone He died. Men have forgot his name.
MIST
I
I climb them step by step,-- The vanished years. Stumbling I pause to look below, Down wells of time, so black, so deep Their waters keep No sound, Nor show a star, Nor hold a memory.
II
Sometimes I kneel and look above That dark stairway At years to come; My fingers clasp my fears, Where my hopes go. Up there, beyond that last, gray step, Afar, Within that roof of mist, What is that shape in flight Dim, strong and slow?
III
“A wing,” some say; Some answer, “Love”; And some say, “Night And Sleep.” But I? I do not know.
LAST DAWN
When that last dawn comes, what will it be?-- A plume of fire on a cloud of gray; A shrouded ship in a cocoon sea; A mountain peak with its one gold star; A bird’s nest swung by a silver wind; Or the curve of an arm with its cradled child? What will that last dawn be?
And God, what will God be? The plume of fire or the mist-spun ship, The mountain peak with its signal star, The nest blown wide for the coming day, Or the child in the human passionate arms?... I wonder what God will be And who shall see!
EVEN AS HERE
This is the end to which I come,-- I who have loved beauty all my days: This grief of tortured flowers, This prison box devised by men, These nails and hasps and graven plates, This narrow room, these curious eyes, This tolling bell, These mumbled words miscalled of God, This brutal stone!
O, rather, Love, Lay me on sweet-burning cedar, Free, fragrant with beaded pitch where the clean axe cut, With flame that leaps from singing heart of wood to mine! Then cast me as ash upon the quilted colors of the autumn hills, And I shall be pale lace of wind To kiss your lips, your eyes once more!
Or strew me on water Till I know again its slipping hands of dream, And see its golden deep of sand shadowed with memories, And feel its cradling touch soft as your moving breast In closeness beyond the reach of words!
Or toss me as a feather To some little shepherd moon and flock of stars Where, in the slow-rolling of prodigious hours Round the blown crust of other worlds, Space beyond space, I shall find you,--even as here!
AGAIN?
_To my Home on Lake Champlain_
Shall I come again? Again to see the reeds, Yellowing now?
_“Bye and bye!_ _Bye and bye!”_ _Lake rushes cry._
Shall I come again To these willow leaves Falling now?
_Their joy was brief!_ _The willow leaf_ _Knows grief._
Shall I breathe again Gray balsam dripping amber On the mould?
_What knows the year_ _Of any fear,--_ _Of any amber tear!_
_September 27, 1920._
End of Project Gutenberg's Willow Pollen, by Jeannette Augustus Marks