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A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 

 
 
 
 NEW BORZOI POETRY 
 
 BODY AND RAIMENT 
 PROFILES FROM CHINA 
 By Eunice Tietjens 
 
 170 CHINESE POEMS 
 MORE TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 THE CHINESE 
 
 By Arthur Waley 
 
 POEMS: FIRST SERIES 
 By J. C. Squire 
 
 THE BELOVED STRANGER 
 By Witter Bynner 
 
 
 
 
 
A WOMAN OF THIRTT 
 
 BY 
 
 MARJORIE ALLEN SEIFFERT 
 
 ii 
 
 AND 
 
 POEMS OF ELIJAH HAY 
 
 NEW rORK 
 
 ALFRED ' A • KNOPF 
 
 1919 
 
COPYEIGHT, 1919, BY 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 
 
 
 ULO 
 
 / !9!S 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 
 
 OCI.A561001 
 
TO 
 
 O. H. S. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. The Old Woman 
 
 A Morality Play, 3 
 
 II. Love Poems in Summer 
 
 Singalese Love Songs I-V, 11 
 
 The Silent Pool, 15 
 
 Nocturne, 16 
 
 Theme Arranged for Organ I-III, 17 
 
 The Moonlight Sonata, 19 
 
 Possession, 20 
 
 Evening: the Taj Mahal, 21 
 
 The Gift, 23 
 
 The Bridge, 24 
 
 A Temple I-VII, 25 
 
 Candles, 30 
 
 Winter Night, 31 
 
 Last Days I-V, 32 
 
 Sorrow, 35 
 
 Prison, 36 
 
 The Dream House, 37 
 
 III. Studies and Designs 
 
 Design for a Japanese Vase, 41 
 
 The Bow Moon (A Print by Hiroshige), 42 
 
 An Italian Chest, 44 
 
 The Pedlar, 46 
 
 Portrait of a Lady in Bed I-V, 48 
 
 Portrait of a Gentleman, 53 
 
 From the Madison Street Police Station, 54 
 
 La Felice, 55 
 
 The Journey, 57 
 
 The Last Illusion, 58 
 
 The Desert, 59 
 
 The Picnic, 61 
 
IV. Interlude 
 
 Mountain Trails I-VII, 67 
 
 October Morning, 70 
 
 October Afternoon, 71 
 
 Maternity, 72 
 
 The Father Speaks, 73 
 
 To Allen, 74 
 
 To Helen, 75 
 
 The Immortal, 76 
 
 To an Absent Child I-IV, 78 
 
 Summer Night, 80 
 
 Maura I-VI, 8i 
 
 November Dusk, 85 
 
 Winter Valley I-IV, 86 
 
 V. Love Poems in Autumn 
 
 Ballad, 91 
 
 The Pathway of Black Leaves I-IV, 92 
 
 Elegy, 95 
 
 Sequence I-X, 96 
 
 Disillusion, 103 
 
 November Afternoon, 104 
 
 Yareth at Solomon's Tomb, 105 
 
 Argolis, 106 
 
 St. Faith's Eve, 107 
 
 Poems of Elijah Hay 
 
 The Golden Stag, 11 1 
 
 To Anne Knish, 112 
 
 Lolita, 114 
 
 Spectrum of Mrs. Q., 115 
 
 Epitaph, 116 
 
 A Sixpence, 117 
 
 Three Spectra, 118 
 
 Two Commentaries, 119 
 
 A Womanly Woman, 120 
 
 Lolita Now Is Old, 121 
 
 The Shining Bird, 123 
 
 The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere, 124 
 
 Ode in the New Mode, 126 
 
 Night, 127 
 
I. The Old Woman 
 
 (A Morality Play) 
 
The Old Woman 
 
 (A Morality Play) 
 
 Characters : 
 
 The Woman 
 The House 
 The Doctor 
 The Deacon 
 The Landlady 
 
 Doctor: There is an old woman 
 
 Who ought to die — 
 
 Deacon : And nobody knows 
 
 But what she's dead — 
 
 Doctor: The air will be cleaner 
 
 When she's gone — 
 
 Deacon: But we dare not bury her 
 
 Till she's dead — 
 
 Landlady : Come, young doctor 
 
 From the first floor front, 
 Come, dusty deacon, 
 
From the fourth floor back, 
 
 You take her heels 
 
 And I'll take her head — 
 
 Doctor and We'll carry her 
 Deacon: And bury her 
 
 If she's dead! 
 
 House: • They roll her up 
 
 In her old, red quilt. 
 They carry her down 
 At a horizontal tilt, 
 She doesn't say " Yes " 
 And she doesn't say " No," 
 She doesn't say, " Gentlemen, 
 Wbere do we go? " 
 
 Doctor: Out in the lot 
 
 Where ash-cans die, 
 There, old woman, 
 There shall you lie! 
 
 Deacon: Let's hurry away 
 
 And never look behind 
 To see if her eyes 
 Are dead and blind. 
 To see if the quilt 
 Lies over her face — 
 Perhaps she'll groan 
 Or move in her place ! 
 
House : The room Is empty 
 
 Where the old woman lay, 
 And I no longer 
 Smell like a tomb — 
 
 Landlady: Doctor, deacon. 
 Can you say 
 Who'll pay rent 
 For the old woman's room? 
 
 House : The room is empty 
 
 Down the hall. 
 There are mice in the closet, 
 Ghosts in the wall — 
 A pretty Httle lady 
 Comes to see — 
 
 Woman: Oh, what a dark room. 
 
 Not for me ! 
 
 Landlady: The room is large 
 And the rent is low. 
 There's a deacon above 
 And a doctor below — 
 
 Deacon: When the little mice squeak 
 
 I shall pray — 
 
 Doctor: I'll psycho-analyse 
 
 The ghosts away — 
 
Landlady: The bed is large 
 
 And the mattress deep, 
 Wrapped in a feather-bed 
 You shall sleep — 
 
 Woman: But here's the door 
 
 Without a key ! 
 An unlocked room 
 Won't do for me ! 
 
 Doctor : 
 
 Here's a bolt — 
 
 Deacon: 
 
 And here's a bar — 
 
 Landlady : 
 
 You'll sleep soundly 
 
 
 Where you are ! 
 
 Woman : 
 
 Good night, gentlemen, 
 
 
 It's growing late, 
 
 
 Good night, landlady, 
 
 
 Pray don't waitl 
 
 
 I'm going to bed, 
 
 
 I'll bolt the door 
 
 
 And sleep more soundly 
 
 
 Than ever before! 
 
 Deacon : Good night, madam, 
 
 I'll steal away — 
 
 Doctor: Glad a pretty lady 
 
 Has come to stay! 
 
House : She lights a candle — 
 
 What do I see ! 
 That cloak looks like 
 A quilt to me! 
 She climbs into bed 
 Where long she's lain, 
 She's come back home. 
 She won't leave again. 
 She's found once more 
 Her rightful place. 
 Same old lady 
 With a pretty new face. 
 Let the deacon pray 
 And the doctor talk, 
 The mice will squeak 
 And the ghosts will walk. 
 There's a crafty smile 
 On the landlady's face. 
 The old woman's gone, 
 But she's filled her place ! 
 
 Landlady: It's nothing to me 
 
 If the old woman's dead. 
 There's somebody sleeping 
 In every bed I 
 
II. Love Poems in Summer 
 
Singalese Love Songs 
 
 Your eyes are beautiful beggars, 
 
 Careless singing minstrels, 
 
 Who will not starve 
 
 Nor sleep cold under the sky 
 
 If they receive no largess 
 
 Of mine. 
 
 Once lived a woman 
 Of great charity — 
 
 At last 
 
 Her own children 
 
 Begged for bread. 
 
 II 
 
 I would make you love me 
 That you might possess 
 Desire — 
 
 For to your heart 
 Beauty is a burned-out torch, 
 II 
 
And Faith, a blind pigeon, 
 Friendship, a curious Persian myth, 
 And Love, blank emptiness. 
 Bearing no significance 
 Nor any reality. 
 
 Only Weariness is yours : 
 I would make you love me 
 That you might possess 
 Desire. 
 
 HI 
 
 Is my love 
 
 Of flesh or spirit? 
 
 I only know to me 
 
 Your eyes are wholly you. 
 
 Our glances dart 
 
 Like the flash of a bird 
 
 Gone, before the colour of his wing 
 
 Is seen. 
 
 I have not bathed my soul 
 
 In your eyes. 
 
 My soul would drown. 
 
 12 
 
IV 
 
 I have starved to know your lips 
 
 Yet my soul 
 
 Does not die of want. 
 
 For only dreams are real, 
 And fulfilment is an illusion. 
 There is but one fulfilment, 
 Blind Nature's way — 
 
 My arms reach toward illusion, 
 
 And I would carry mist against my heart, 
 
 Not the warm, heavy head 
 
 Of a sleeping child. 
 
 Starving, I hold my dream. 
 
 What do you seek, 
 Beloved? 
 
 When you have had 
 
 All of me 
 
 There will remain for you 
 
 One beautiful desire the less. 
 
 You think you seek my love 
 But you seek 
 My denial. 
 
 13 
 
Hunger, Want, 
 Is the only pain 
 I would not spare you 
 Alas, that too 
 Will die ! 
 
 14 
 
The Silent Pool 
 
 Your smile is a heron, flying 
 
 Over waters cool, 
 
 My thoughts of you are blue Iris ! 
 
 Today is the silent pool 
 
 Which shining heron and Iris blue 
 
 Are mirrored on. 
 
 Tomorrow 
 
 Will still reflect the Iris — 
 My thoughts of you; 
 But the heron will be gone. 
 
 15 
 
Nocturne 
 
 It is enough 
 To feel your beauty 
 With the fingers 
 Of my heart, 
 
 Your beauty, like the starlight, 
 Filling night so gently, that it dreams 
 Unwakened. 
 
 I should feel your beauty against my face 
 Though I were blind. 
 
 i6 
 
Theme Arranged for Organ 
 
 I. Prelude 
 
 What would you have of me, my friend, in truth, 
 A breath of understanding, or a glance 
 Into your soul's dark places? Can a word 
 Aid in your brave attempt to smother youth? 
 Of what avail that trifling circumstance. 
 In such a tumult could my voice be heard? 
 
 Before your bitter need my lips are dumb 
 So little can I give you. Should I come 
 To feed a starving Titan with a crumb? 
 
 II. Interlude 
 
 Alas, I am too foolish or too wise, 
 
 Too soon am blinded or I see too far! 
 
 How can I follow with expectant feet. 
 
 What is the beacon light that holds your eyes, 
 
 Can this blind alley lead to any star 
 
 And through this dark confusion, what retreat? 
 
 For heaven is awed when comets crash to earth. 
 But we, who grope and question our soul's worth. 
 Stumbling, awaken only bitter mirth. 
 
 17 
 
III. POSTLUDE 
 
 A breath, a glance, a word, — no more, my friend, 
 This is the sum of what I have to give 
 Leaving the tale for ever incomplete. 
 No perfect moment, and no tragic end. 
 Within your heart those images shall live 
 And die like footsteps down an empty street. 
 
 Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith: 
 
 " Spend your soul's vigour to the utmost breath 
 
 And let the hounds come baying at the death! " 
 
 i8 
 
The Moonlight Sonata 
 
 My soul storm-beaten as an ancient pier 
 Stands forth into the sea ; wave on slow wave 
 Of shining music, luminous and grave, 
 Lifting against me, pouring through me, here 
 Find wafts of unforgotten chords, which rise 
 And droop like clinging sea-weed. You, so white, 
 So still, so helpless on this fathomless night 
 Float like a corpse with living, tortured eyes. 
 Deep waves wash you against me; you impart 
 No comfort to my spirit, give no sign 
 Your Inarticulate lips can taste the brine 
 Drowning the secret timbers of my heart. 
 
 19 
 
Possession 
 
 I hold you fast, your hurrying breath, 
 Your wandering feet, your restless heart, 
 Are mine alone, for only death 
 You vowed today, can make us part. 
 
 Your eager lips, athirst to drain 
 Life's goblet of its golden wine 
 Shall drink tonight or thirst in vain — 
 I hold you fast for you are mine. 
 
 And when I search your soul until 
 I see too deeply and divine 
 That you can never love me — Still 
 I hold you fast for you are mine! 
 
 20 
 
Evening: the Taj Mahal 
 
 (A Lover Speaks) 
 Beloved! . . . 
 
 India and you 
 
 Breathe through my soul tonight, 
 
 You in your gown, impossibly white — 
 
 I marvel greatly that it fail 
 
 To glow and pale 
 
 With iridescent light — 
 
 How can it hang in silent nun-like folds? 
 
 Think of the flaming mystery it holds, 
 
 You . . . You . . . 
 
 We stand in that wide place 
 
 Where love is frozen in marble, spire on spire, 
 
 A snow-white nightingale with a heart of fire 
 
 Soaring in space. 
 
 We gaze, together, into the shining pool 
 
 To catch the soul of beauty unaware 
 
 Finding only the peaceful body there 
 
 Of beauty drowned and still in waters cool. 
 
 Burning so luminously in these pure white things 
 Somehow akin, are palpitating fires, 
 
 21 
 
Intangible, yet visible as spires 
 
 Or wings. 
 
 And close at hand, an unseen Moslem sings 
 
 Blind, haunting chants, which speak 
 
 Of mystery, forevermore unguessed. 
 
 O shining ones, I seek 
 
 No farther, for my soul, content. 
 
 Divines the secret of the Taj Mahal and you 
 
 Beauty and desire, possessed 
 
 In white tranquillity, in flaming peace, 
 
 Find rest. 
 
 22 
 
The Gift 
 
 What is this wine you have poured for me? 
 
 You have offered up 
 Your face in its pure transparency 
 
 Like a crystal cup 
 Which trembling fingers slowly lift — 
 
 It is faintly masked 
 With a tremulous smile. You have brought me a gift, 
 
 Your love, unasked. 
 
 Could you trust my reckless hands so much? 
 
 With no vow spoken, 
 You gave me a goblet, which at a touch 
 
 Were utterly broken 1 
 Your smile replied: " Since the glass was filled 
 
 It little mattered 
 Whether the wine were drunk or spilled 
 
 Or the goblet shattered." 
 
 23 
 
The Bridge 
 
 I walk the bridge of hours from dawn till night 
 My heart beating so loud in joyous wonder 
 To know your love, that I can scarcely breathe; 
 But in the lonely darkness, with affright 
 I faintly hear, like ominous, distant thunder 
 The unseen ocean surging close beneath. 
 
 Our bridge so frail, eternity so vast ! 
 When we must sink into the deep at last 
 Heart of my heart, will you still hold me fast? 
 
 24 
 
A Temple 
 
 I. DOORWAY 
 
 Carven angels 
 
 On the portals, 
 
 Angels with crowns, and eagles 
 
 And golden lions 
 
 On the door. 
 
 This is why 
 
 The alien worshippers went their way, 
 
 Why you alone discovered 
 
 The gates were open. 
 
 You touched the velvet curtains behind them, 
 They parted to let you pass. 
 
 II. WINDOW 
 
 I make a window 
 
 Of you, beloved, 
 
 Through which the sun colours 
 
 The silence. 
 
 « 
 
 Even your absences 
 Are spaces I have filled 
 With sapphire; 
 
 25 
 
Your denials 
 
 Are burning gold, 
 
 I have painted your reluctance 
 
 Emerald green: 
 
 Your silences 
 
 Are crimson 
 
 On which your words make delicate 
 
 Black tracery. 
 
 As for me, 
 
 My will is the grey lead 
 
 Which I have bent to hold the coloured 
 
 Panes of you. 
 
 III. SPIRE 
 
 My wish goes singing upward 
 Holding a chime of bells 
 In its heart : 
 
 Pigeons know my silent bells, 
 Winds touch them and wonder. 
 
 That they might reach 
 That high blue — 
 
 Till star fingers touch them 
 Ever so gently — 
 
 26 
 
And drifting clouds 
 
 Lay cool cheeks against them — 
 
 My wish goes singing upward 
 Reaching into silence. 
 
 IV. PRIEDIEU 
 
 Beauty passes 
 But dust is eternal. 
 Outside the temple 
 Beauty dies in the wind. 
 
 So when my temple is fallen 
 And lies in dust, 
 
 Where then will be the memory 
 Of your beauty? 
 
 I pray my dust 
 
 That it may hold your image 
 
 Tomorrow and for ever. 
 
 V. FESTIVAL 
 
 The beloved is returning, 
 Let the bells ring! 
 
 I too am a tower 
 Hung with bronze bells, 
 
 27 
 
I too am a bell 
 Chiming to the winds, 
 
 I too am the wind 
 Ringing to the hills, 
 
 I too am the hills 
 Singing to the sky. 
 
 I too am the sky! 
 
 The beloved is returning. 
 
 Let the bells ring ! 
 
 VI. DUSK 
 
 There is no soul too poor to build a temple 
 Where it may go apart 
 And worship darkness. 
 
 For out of darkness 
 
 Images shine . . . and fade . . . 
 
 Since now there is no worship nor any music, 
 
 Let incense be a curved smile 
 
 On lips that remember, 
 
 And candles, notes of laughter 
 
 In empty dusk. 
 
 Above, 
 
 A coloured window slowly turns 
 Black to the night. 
 28 
 
VII. RUINS 
 
 Temples have fallen 
 
 Before today, 
 
 Stones are ever loosening their hold 
 
 One on another . . . 
 
 You blocks of marble, sleeping in the sun, 
 Can you remember chiming bells 
 And incense? 
 
 Now there is only silence, 
 
 Even the winged stones of archways 
 
 Sleep in peace. 
 
 29 
 
Candles 
 
 Silence is but the golden frame 
 
 That holds your face, 
 My thoughts, like unblown candle-flame 
 
 In a holy place 
 Surround you. From this secret shrine 
 
 Somewhere apart 
 Do you not feel my candles shine 
 
 Upon your heart ? 
 
 30 
 
Winter Night 
 
 The I that does not love you 
 I have kept hidden away 
 In the dark. 
 
 (I never dreamed 
 There was a You 
 That does not love me I ) 
 
 Tonight they met. 
 
 I hear their words 
 Falling like icicles 
 Upon me . . . 
 I am frozen in terror . . . i 
 Have they killed the You 
 That Loves me? 
 
 Beloved, can you hear me 
 Through the bitter sound 
 Of icicles falling? 
 Can you see me from behind 
 Your frozen eyes? 
 
 31 
 
Last Days 
 
 Shall I pretend 
 
 These days are just like other days? 
 
 One cannot spend 
 
 Every day for seven weeks 
 
 Saying good-bye. 
 
 So when I must 
 
 I speak of your departure casually 
 
 As though It were a hundred years away; 
 
 As Youth is wont to say: 
 
 " Sometime we all must die ! " 
 
 II 
 
 We talk of all the happy things we have done, 
 
 We pass them in review, 
 
 "Do you remember? " is often on our lips. 
 
 One by one 
 
 We touch our memories and put them all away- 
 How shall I dare to look at them 
 When you are gone ! 
 32 
 
Ill 
 
 There is no beginning to my love 
 
 Nor any end — 
 
 It is about your head 
 
 Like the deep air, 
 
 More than your breath can spend. 
 
 It is about your heart 
 
 Like arms of faith — 
 
 Where you go, it is there. 
 
 IV 
 
 There are no last things to say. 
 
 What promise can I make? 
 
 You know my love so well. 
 
 All that I have is yours to take. 
 
 (How will it be, with part of me away, 
 
 Must not my soul be changed?) 
 
 Shall I stay young for memory's sake? 
 Shall I be old and grave and grey? 
 If I might choose, how could I tell! 
 
 The You I know 
 I shall not see again, 
 A stranger will return. 
 
 33 
 
How shall I win the love 
 Which he has kept apart 
 With a blurred image which once was I? 
 
 I shall not know his heart, 
 How can I learn? 
 
 34 
 
Sorrow 
 
 Sorrow stands In a wide place, 
 
 Blind — blind — 
 
 Beauty and joy are petals blown 
 
 Across her granite face, 
 
 They cannot find 
 
 Sight or sentience in stone. 
 
 Yesterday's beauty and joy lie deep 
 In sorrow's heart, asleep. 
 
 35 
 
Prison 
 
 I close the book — the story has grown dim, 
 The plot confused; the hero fades 
 Behind unmeaning words, and over him 
 The covers close like window shades 
 On empty windows. The watchful room 
 Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares 
 Into the shadows. The coals are dumb. 
 The clock ticks heavily. The chairs 
 Wait sullenly for guests who never come. 
 
 Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet 
 Plodding into the night 
 Carry me down the empty street 
 Made hideous with arcs of purple light . , . 
 Inevitably I must return to bed. 
 The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks. 
 I am their prisoner. I have no more chance 
 Of escape, when all is said. 
 Than a dying beetle in a box — 
 And life, and love, — and death — have gone to 
 France. 
 
 36 
 
The Dream House 
 
 I steal across the sodden floor 
 
 And dead leaves blow about, 
 
 Where once we planned an iron door 
 To shut the whole world out ; 
 
 I find the hearth, its fires unlit, 
 Its ashes cold — Tonight 
 
 Only the stars give warmth to it. 
 Only the moon gives light. 
 
 And yonder on our spacious bed 
 Fashioned for love and sleep 
 
 The Autumn goldenrod lies dead. 
 The maple-leaves lie deep. 
 
 37 
 
III. Studies and Designs 
 
A Japanese Vase 
 
 (A Design to be Wrought in Metals) 
 
 Five harsh, black birds in shining bronze come crying 
 
 Into a silver sky, 
 
 Piercing and jubilant is the shape of their flying. 
 
 Their beaks are pointed with dehght, 
 
 Curved sharply with desire, 
 
 The passionate direction of their flight, 
 
 Clear and high. 
 
 Stretches their bodies taut like humming wire. 
 
 The cold wind blows into angry patterns the jet-bright 
 
 Feathers of their wings, 
 
 Their claws curl loosely, safely, about nothingness, 
 
 They clasp no things. 
 
 Direction and desire they possess 
 
 By which in sharp, unswerving flight they hold 
 
 Across an iron sea to the golden beach 
 
 Whereon lies carrion, their feast. A shore of gold 
 
 That birds wrought on a vase can never reach. 
 
 41 
 
The Bow Moon 
 
 (A print by Hiroshige) 
 
 From the dawn, Take San, 
 
 Ungathered star, 
 
 Follow me back through night 
 
 Till I recapture 
 
 Evening. 
 
 (The bending hours of darkness 
 
 Sway apart like lilies 
 
 Before the backward-blowing wind.) 
 
 At last, 
 
 Bearing in her mysterious bosom 
 
 Unravished beauty, 
 
 Dark Yesterday rises to view against her silent sky 
 
 Irrevocable . . . secret . . . 
 
 Confronting the fantastic dream 
 
 Of an impossible Tomorrow. 
 
 And that frail bridge, 
 
 Delicate, immutable. 
 
 Which rises higher than the moon. 
 
 More everlasting than the fading sky, 
 
 42 
 
Joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been, 
 That bridge were named " Today " 
 If I had loved you, Take San, 
 If you had loved me. 
 
 43 
 
An Italian Chest 
 
 (Lorenzo Designs a Bas-Relief) 
 
 Lust Is the oldest lion of them all 
 
 And he shall have first place, 
 
 With a malignant growl, satirical. 
 
 To curve In foliations prodigal 
 
 Round and around his face. 
 
 Extending till the echoes interlace 
 
 With Pride and Prudence, two cranes, gaunt and tall. 
 
 Four lesser lions crouch and malign the cranes, 
 
 Cursing and gossiping they shake their manes 
 
 While from their long tongues leak 
 
 Drops of thin venom as they speak. 
 
 The cranes, unmoved, peck grapes and grains 
 
 From a huge cornucopia, which rains 
 
 A plenteous meal from Its antique 
 
 Interior (a note quite curiously Greek). 
 
 And nine long serpents twist 
 
 And twine, twist and twine, 
 
 A riotously beautiful design 
 
 Whose elements consist 
 
 Of eloquent spirals, fair and fine, 
 
 44 
 
Embracing cranes and lions, who exist 
 Seemingly free, yet tangled in that living vine. 
 
 And in this chest shall be 
 
 Two cubic meters of space 
 
 Enough to hold all memory 
 
 Of you and me — 
 
 And this shall be the place 
 
 Where silence shall embrace 
 
 Our bodies, and obliterate the trace 
 
 Our souls made on the purity 
 
 Of night . . . 
 
 Now lock the chest, for we 
 
 Are dead, and lose the key! 
 
 45 
 
46 
 
 The Pedlar 
 
 Hark, people, to the cry 
 
 Of this curious young magician-pedlar 
 
 Seeking a golden bowl ! 
 
 He wanders through the city 
 Offering useful tin-ware 
 For all the ancient metal 
 You have left to rust 
 In the dim, dusty attic 
 Or mouldy cellar 
 Of your soul. 
 
 He refuses nothing — 
 
 Rusty nails 
 
 Which may have played their part 
 
 In a crucifixion — 
 
 For ten of these he will give 
 
 A new tin spoon. 
 
 The andirons 
 
 Once guarding hearth-fires of content, 
 
 Now dusty and forgotten 
 
 In an obscure corner, 
 
 He will give for these 
 
A new tin tea-kettle 
 With a wooden handle. 
 
 And for this antique bowl 
 Fashioned to hold 
 Roses or wine? 
 
 The eyes of the pedlar glisten ! 
 
 O woman, if acid reveal 
 
 Gold beneath the tarnished surface 
 
 He will gladly give you 
 
 His hands, his eyes, his soul, 
 
 His young, white body — 
 
 If not, 
 
 A mocking laugh 
 And a bright tin sieve 
 To hold your wine 
 And roses. 
 
 47 
 
Portrait of a Lady in Bed 
 
 I. THE COVERLET 
 
 My cowardice 
 Covers me safely 
 From everything . . . 
 
 From cold, which makes me yield 
 And quietly die 
 Beneath the snow; 
 
 From heat, which makes me faint 
 Until cool nothingness receives me; 
 
 From hurt, (Seize me, O Lion, 
 And I shall die of fright 
 Before I feel your teeth!) 
 
 From love. 
 
 Yes, most of all from love. 
 
 How can love touch mc? 
 Is it not heat. 
 Or cold, 
 Or a lion? 
 
 48 
 
My cowardice covers me 
 
 Safely 
 
 From everything! 
 
 II. THE PILLOW 
 
 To know you think of me 
 Sustains my spirit 
 Through the long night. 
 
 (My thought of you 
 
 Is wine, banishing sleep!) 
 
 Your thoughts of me are feathers, 
 
 Light nothings, 
 
 Drifting, dancing. 
 
 Floating, 
 
 Blown by a breath of fancy 
 
 Away from your sight. 
 
 They would choke me. 
 
 They would blind me 
 
 With the Nothing I am to you 
 
 If I dared see them; 
 
 But I bind them into a pillow, 
 
 And to know that you think of me 
 
 Sustains my spirit 
 
 Through the night. 
 
 49 
 
III. SOUVENIR 
 
 Harlequin, seeing me gay 
 
 You loved me, 
 
 For fools need mirth, 
 
 O solemn Harlequin 1 
 
 Tall tragedians make me laugh 
 
 Joyously, riotously. 
 
 Tall, dark villains, and heroes with blonde hair 
 
 Make me laugh uproariously . . . 
 
 (I could elope with a tragedian!) 
 
 But you with your clowning, Harlequin, 
 Brought bony truth too near — 
 
 Harlequin, I might have loved you 
 But I could not make you gay! 
 
 IV. THE CURTAIN 
 
 I do not fear 
 
 You, or me, or death, 
 
 There now is nothing left to fear 
 
 But this. 
 
 This curtain of blackness. 
 
 Once I feared you. 
 
 And all you thought and felt 
 
 50 
 
And all you said and did : 
 
 I feared myself, 
 
 And all you made me think and feel 
 
 And say and do — 
 
 Now I no longer fear 
 
 Thinking, feeling, saying, doing. 
 
 Nor blankness, silence, apathy, torpor 
 
 I do not fear 
 
 You, or me, or death — 
 
 I only fear 
 
 This curtain of blackness 
 
 Which is your absence. 
 
 V. THE DREAM 
 
 Harlequin comes to me, smiling. 
 Through the white-shining birch trees 
 Of the twilight wood. 
 
 He has forgiven 
 My cowardice and hesitations. 
 Soon I shall sink into his arms 
 With all the imagined fervour 
 Of a thousand dreams. 
 
 Why does he come so slowly? 
 There is no longer anything 
 To mar our meeting . . . 
 51 
 
This must be real 
 For Harlequin is still clowning, 
 He waves his arms grotesquely 
 To make me smile .... 
 
 Quick, into his arms 
 With unspent fervour . . . 
 Why are the trees all sighing? 
 Look, whispering birches, if you will, 
 I and my love embrace ! 
 
 They do not look, 
 
 They do not seem to care . . . 
 
 Embrace me, my beloved ! 
 (Can these by passionate kisses? 
 They feel so thin and cool 
 Like mist.) 
 
 The birches shiver 
 
 As though the night-wind stirred them. 
 
 Can we be dead? 
 
 52 
 
Portrait of a Gentleman 
 
 Tower of stone 
 
 Rugged and lonely, 
 
 My thoughts like Ivy 
 
 Embrace my memory of you, 
 
 Climbing riotously, wantonly, 
 
 Till the harsh walls 
 
 Are clothed in tender green. 
 
 Tower of stone. 
 
 Stark walls and a narrow door 
 
 Which speak: 
 
 " You who are not for me 
 
 Are against me, — 
 
 If you are mine, 
 
 Enter! " 
 
 But who would be prisoned 
 In unknown darkness? 
 
 Tower of stone 
 
 Rugged and lonely, 
 
 I dared not enter and I would not go 
 
 Till clasping you 
 
 My arms were bruised and torn. 
 
 53 
 
From the Madison Street Police Station 
 
 I, John Shepherd, vagrant, 
 Petition the park commissioners 
 For wider benches. 
 
 My soul has long been reconciled 
 To the prick of gunny-sack, 
 (O well-remembered woollen fleeces!) 
 And rustling vests of newspaper, 
 And the chill of rubbers on unshod feet. 
 But to the wasteful burning of dry leaves, 
 God's shepherd's mattress. 
 Never! 
 
 Descendant of ancient ones 
 Who tended flocks and watched the midnight sky, 
 My forebears saw the Eastern star appear 
 Over Judean hills. 
 
 Where do your flocks graze, gentlemen? 
 Are there no sheep or shepherds any more ? 
 All day long I sought the flocks 
 And came by night to a wide, grassy place. 
 Where I could sit and watch the stars wheel by — > 
 And in the morning some one brought me here. 
 54 
 
La Felice 
 
 La Felice, by the forest pond 
 
 looks through leaves to the Western screen 
 
 of Chinese gold that lies beyond 
 
 black trees and boughs of golden-green. 
 
 The little body of La Felice 
 
 weary of everything on earth 
 
 has passed from love to love, till peace 
 
 and beauty alone have any worth. 
 
 So still and deep the water lies, 
 
 so fiery-cool, so yellow-clear; 
 
 " Here beauty sleeps! " La Felice cries, 
 
 " I will give myself to beauty here !" 
 
 The mud is smooth and deep, the weeds 
 beneath her feet are soft and cool, 
 ripples widen and glistening beads 
 of bubble rise on the forest pool. 
 
 The water reaches to her knee, 
 now to her thigh, now to her breast, 
 till like a child all peacefully 
 does La Felice He down to rest. 
 
She struggles like a fearful bride 
 with ecstasy — then La Felice 
 turns quietly upon her side 
 and over the sunset pool is peace. 
 
 56 
 
The Journey 
 
 Tiiree women walked through the snow 
 
 Beneath an empty sky, 
 And one was bhnd, and one was old, 
 
 And one was I. 
 
 Bravely the Blind One led, 
 
 I questioned from behind 
 " Tell me, where do we go? " She said 
 
 " Have courage ... I am blind! " 
 
 We came at last to a cliff, 
 
 The Blind One plunged, and was gone 
 I looked behind me, stark and stiff 
 
 The Old One stood in the dawn. 
 
 The deep crevasse was black 
 
 Beneath the dawning day, 
 I could not turn and travel back. 
 
 The Old One barred the way. 
 
 I could not turn aside, 
 
 (To lead, one dare not see) 
 
 I think that day I must have died 
 Such silence is in me. 
 
 57 
 
The Last Illusion 
 
 Along the twilight road I met three women, 
 And they were neither old nor very young; 
 In her hands each bore what she most cherished, 
 For they were neither rich, nor very poor. 
 
 In the hands of the first woman 
 I saw white ashes in an urn, 
 In the hands of the next woman 
 I saw a tarnished mirror gleam. 
 In the hands of the last woman 
 I saw a heavy, jagged stone — 
 
 Along the twilight road I met three women. 
 And they were neither fools nor very wise. 
 For each was troubled lest another covet 
 Her precious burden — so they walked alone. 
 
The Desert 
 
 Through dusty years, and drearily, 
 
 Two lovers rode across a desert hill 
 
 While patient love followed them wearily 
 
 Through the long, sultry day ... 
 
 But when night came, the desert had its way, 
 
 Turning, they found love cold and still. 
 
 It lay so pitiful a thing, 
 
 Threadbare, and soiled, and worn — 
 
 " Why have we kept such starveling love? " she cried, 
 
 *' Was it worth treasuring? " 
 
 And he replied: 
 
 " Bury it then! I shall not mourn! " 
 
 The wind came from the West, 
 
 It seemed to blow 
 
 Across a million graves to the sordid bier 
 
 Where lay their love. She said: "We will bury it 
 
 here!" 
 They laid it low. 
 They rode on, dispossessed. 
 
 And all around 
 
 Rose silent hills against the darkening sky, 
 
 59 
 
Wave upon motionless wave. 
 
 The night wind made a mournful sound. 
 
 The woman turned: " It is lonely here ! 
 
 I am afraid! " she said. 
 
 He made reply: 
 
 " What is there left to lose or save? 
 
 What is there left to fear? 
 
 Our hearts are empty. Have we not buried our 
 
 dead?" 
 She said, " I fear the empty dark, be kind! " 
 He said, " I am still here, be comforted! " 
 
 Then from its shallow grave 
 
 Their love rose up and followed close behind. 
 
 60 
 
The Picnic 
 
 Here they come, in pairs, carrying baskets. 
 
 Pale clerks with brilliant neckties, and cheap serge 
 
 suits, 
 Steering girls by the arm, clerks, too. 
 Pretty and slim and smart. 
 Even to yellow kid boots, laced up behind. 
 
 They take the electric cars far into the country. 
 
 They descend, gaily chattering, at the Amusement 
 
 Park. 
 Under the trees they eat the lunch they have carried — 
 Salad, sausages, sandwiches, candy, warm beer. 
 They ride in the roller-coaster, two in a seat, 
 (Glorious danger! Warm, delicious proximity!) 
 The unaccustomed beer floods their veins like heady 
 
 wine. 
 And smothered youth awakens with shrill screams of 
 
 joy. 
 
 The sun sets, and evening is drowned in electric lights; 
 Arm-in-arm, they wander under the trees 
 Everywhere meeting others, wandering arm-in-arm 
 In the same wistful wonder, seeking they know not 
 
 what. 
 6i 
 
Two leave the park and the crowds — The stars shine 
 
 out, 
 A river runs at their feet, behind them, a leafy copse, 
 Away on the other shore, the fields of grain 
 Lie sleeping peacefully in the starlight. 
 Tonight the world is tlieirs, a legacy 
 From those who lived familiar friends with river, field 
 
 and forest — 
 Their forebears. 
 
 Through the night, the same earth-magic moves them 
 Which swayed those ancient ones, long-dead — 
 And these, too, lean and drink, 
 Drink deeply from the river, the flowing river of life. 
 
 Slowly they return to the crowds and the brilliant lights, 
 Dazzled, they look aside, silently climb on the cars. 
 They cling to the swaying straps, weary, inert, con- 
 fused. 
 The lurching car makes halt — they are thrown in each 
 
 others' arms — 
 Alien and unmoved, they sway apart again — 
 The car moves through the fields and suburbs back to 
 the town. 
 
 They leave the car in pairs, the picnic baskets 
 
 Rattling dismally, plate and spoon and jar. 
 
 The boy takes his girl to her lodgings in awkward 
 
 silence. 
 62 
 
They look askance — " Good-night I " — the front 
 
 door closes, 
 Indeed their eyes have not met, since by the river 
 Those wondrous moments 
 Linked them to earth and night, not to each other. 
 
 63 
 
IV. Interlude 
 
Mountain Trails 
 
 (glacier park, SEPT. '17) 
 I 
 
 Night stands in the valley 
 
 Her head 
 
 Is bound with stars, 
 
 While Dawn, a grey-eyed nun 
 
 Steals through the silent trees. 
 
 Behind the mountains 
 
 Morning shouts and sings 
 
 And dances upward. 
 
 II 
 
 The peaks even today show finger prints 
 Where God last touched the earth 
 Before he set it joyously in space 
 Finding it good. 
 
 Ill 
 
 You, slender shining — 
 You, downward leaping — 
 Born from silent snow 
 
To drown at last in tlie blue silent 
 Mountain lake — 
 You are not snow or water, 
 You are only a silver spirit 
 Singing ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Sharp crags of granite, 
 Pointing, threatening, 
 Thrust fiercely up at me; 
 And near the edge, their menace 
 Would whirl me down. 
 
 V 
 
 Climbing desperately toward the heights 
 I glance in terror behind me 
 To be deafened — to be shattered — 
 By a thunderbolt of beauty. 
 
 VI 
 
 The mountains hold communion; 
 They are priests, silent and austere. 
 They have come together 
 In a secret place 
 With unbowed heads. 
 
 68 
 
VII 
 
 This hidden lake 
 Is a sapphire cup — 
 An offering clearer than wine, 
 Colder than tears. 
 
 The mountains hold it toward the sky- 
 In silence. 
 
 69 
 
October Morning 
 
 October is brown 
 In field and row — 
 
 Yet goldenrod 
 And goldenglow, 
 Purple asters 
 And ruddy oaks, 
 Sumach spreading 
 Crimson cloaks, 
 Apples red 
 And pumpkins gold 
 
 Perhaps it's gayer 
 To be oldl 
 
 70 
 
October Afternoon 
 
 The air is warm and winey-sweet, 
 Over my head the oak-leaves shine 
 Like rich Madeira, glossy brown, 
 Or garnet red, like old Port wine. 
 Wild grapes are ripening on the hill, 
 Dead leaves curl thickly at my feet, 
 Yet not one falls, it is so still. 
 Crickets are singing in the sun. 
 And aimlessly grasshoppers leap 
 From discontent to discontent. 
 Their days of leaping nearly done. 
 There's a rich quietness of earth 
 That holds no promise any more, 
 And like a cup, Today is filled 
 With the last wine the year shall pour. 
 
Maternity 
 
 Sturdy Is earth, 
 Dull and mighty, 
 Unresentful — 
 Of her own fertility 
 Covering scars 
 With healing green. 
 
 You cannot anger earth, 
 You cannot cause her pain 
 Nor make her remember 
 Your hungry, querulous love. 
 
 At last your unwilling body 
 She tranquilly receives 
 And turns it to her uses. 
 
 72 
 
The Father Speaks 
 
 My little son, when you were born 
 
 There died a being, sweet and wild, 
 A lovely, careless, radiant child, 
 
 A passionate woman — her I mourn. 
 
 And in her place has come another. 
 
 With troubled smile and brooding eyes, 
 Insatiate of sacrifice 
 
 And wholly, utterly your mother. 
 
 73 
 
To Allen 
 
 Beauty, the dream that I have dreamed so much 
 
 Comes true in your quick smile, 
 
 And on your cheek I see her touch 
 
 And sometimes in your eyes a while 
 
 Immortal beauty's fleeting image lies. 
 
 Dear child, in whose veins beat 
 
 The marching centuries of lovers' feet, 
 
 All those brave, ardent ghosts in you arise — 
 
 The souls who, loving beauty, gave you birth. 
 
 With a chain of passion binding beauty to earth, 
 
 A captured dream — these souls breathe with your 
 
 breath 
 Living again in beauty that knows no death. 
 
 74 
 
To Helen 
 
 Lie still in my arms, little four-years-old, 
 
 Little bud that glows 
 With more beauty and passion than it can hold, 
 
 Little flaming rose, 
 
 The spring's red blossoms, when winter lies deep 
 
 On a wind-swept world 
 Of tossing branches, lie safely asleep 
 
 In brown buds curled. 
 
 They wake — and the wind strips their petals away 
 
 And spills them afar — 
 Can I keep you from blooming, whatever I say. 
 
 Wild bud that you are ! 
 
 75 
 
The Immortal 
 
 Child of a love denied, a dream unborn, 
 Spirit more brave 
 
 Than passion's unfulfilment, wiser than fate - 
 Nor breast nor grave 
 As cradle you have known, — 
 I mourn 
 
 That my soul knows its own 
 Too late ! 
 
 A soul's half-breath, 
 Passion's unremembered dream. 
 Perfume without a vase, 
 Intangible you seem 
 To life or death. 
 
 And when the coloured mantle of the days 
 Slips from my shoulders, and I lie 
 Forgetful, dumb. 
 
 Mingled with earth in passionless embrace. 
 Will you, forgotten as a bird. 
 Singing unheard 
 In space. 
 
 Will you not come 
 When every other dream is gone, 
 76 
 
Bringing to that silent place 
 
 The shadow of a gesture flung 
 
 By motionless hands, a floating echo hung 
 
 From an unspoken word, 
 
 And to the empty sky 
 
 The sunset of a day which did not dawn 
 
 And cannot die ! 
 
 77 
 
To an Absent Child 
 
 I 
 
 At first in dreams 
 
 I pressed you so close 
 
 That you melted away on my breast, 
 
 But now I wait, breathless and motionless, 
 
 Till I feel your slender arms caress me 
 
 Like swallows blown against me 
 
 And quickly flown. 
 
 II 
 
 Small flower, 
 
 My body is the earth from which you sprang, 
 
 But we are more to each other than earth and flower, 
 
 Closer, even, than earth and flower. 
 
 For the sky in me is one with the sky in you . . . 
 
 My love for you 
 
 Is like sunlight shining in a quiet place. 
 You shall feel my love like soft light 
 Pouring about you. 
 
 78 
 
Ill 
 
 I will not kiss you, 
 
 For my kisses are a chain without an end; 
 
 Nor take you in my arms, 
 
 My arms would smother you against my breast; 
 
 I will not even touch your shining head — 
 
 But lift your eyes up, flower-face. 
 
 And I will fill them as full of love 
 
 As they can hold! 
 
 IV 
 
 Ah no! If you were here 
 
 I would sweep you into my arms and hold you close ! 
 
 Though my love is of the spirit 
 
 I must feel your little restless body 
 
 Pressed for a moment against my heart. 
 
 79 
 
Summer Night 
 
 Rain, rain murmuring endless complaints 
 In mournful whisperings that never cease, 
 You bring my tired brain a certain peace 
 Like Latin prayers to absent-minded saints. 
 
 And whether silently to earth you fall, 
 Or dashed and driven in tempestuous flight 
 Like souls before God's wrath, the thirsty night. 
 The soft and fecund earth shall drink you all. 
 
 80 
 
Maura 
 
 I 
 
 Maura dreams unwakened — 
 
 The warm winds touch the bands 
 
 That hold her hair. 
 
 The call of a silver horn floats by, 
 
 A lover tosses flowers into her hands. 
 
 Maura dreams unwakened — 
 She joins the maidens in their dance, 
 Her limbs follow slow rhythms, 
 A lover leads her into the shade, 
 She moves as in a trance. 
 
 II 
 
 What dim confusion 
 
 Troubles her dream, 
 
 What passionate caress 
 
 Disturbs her spirit's rapt seclusion? 
 
 Earth draws her close. How warm 
 Is lover-earth! Like a sleeping bird 
 She gives herself, then suddenly 
 She is a leaf whirled in the storm. 
 
 Somewhere in a quiet room, her soul unstirred. 
 
 Dead ... or sleeping. 
 
 Through the blind tumult hears afar 
 
 8i 
 
The note of a horn, like a silver thread. 
 She has given her soul to an echo's keeping. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Who knows the mountain where the hunter rides 
 
 Winding his horn? 
 
 Maura who heard it in her dream 
 
 Wakens forlorn, 
 
 Too late to catch the tenuous thread 
 
 Of silver sound 
 
 Which in the troubled, intricate fugue of earth 
 
 Is drowned. 
 
 IV 
 
 Maura cannot follow over the hill. 
 
 Her youth is landlocked as a hidden pool 
 
 Where thirsty love drinks deep, 
 
 A shining pool, where lingers 
 
 The colour of an unseen golden sky, 
 
 A pool where echoes fall asleep. 
 
 But restless fingers 
 
 Trouble the waters cool, 
 
 Snatch at reflected beauty, and destroy 
 
 The mirrored dream. The pool is never still, 
 
 And broken echoes die. 
 
 82 
 
V 
 
 The silver call has gone, but there is left to her 
 
 The gentleness of earth, 
 
 The simple mysteries of sleep and death, 
 
 Of love and birth. 
 
 There are faces hungry for smiles, and starving fingers 
 
 Reaching for dreams. 
 
 And like a memory are the wind-swept chords of night, 
 
 And the wide melody of evening sky 
 
 Where gleams 
 
 A colour like the echo of a horn. 
 
 There is a far hill where winds die. 
 
 And over the hill lies music yet unborn. 
 
 VI 
 
 Maura lies dead at last, 
 
 The body she gave to child and lover 
 
 Now feeds flower and tree. 
 
 Earth's arms are wide to her. What breast 
 Offers such gentle sleeping? 
 Her limbs lie peacefully. 
 
 From the dark West 
 There comes a note like the echoing cry 
 Of one who rides through the dusk alone 
 After the hunt sweeps by. 
 
 83 
 
It fades — the night wind Is forlorn — 
 
 Music is still, 
 
 But Maura has followed the silver horn 
 
 Over the distant hill, 
 
 Over the hill where all winds die. 
 
 84 
 
November Dusk 
 
 Where like ghosts of verdant days 
 
 Whispering down, 
 Leaves in the November dusk 
 
 Drift and drown, 
 
 Stand two lovers, motionless 
 
 And apart 
 In their sturdy nakedness 
 
 Of the heart, 
 
 Two dark figures, side by side 
 
 Through the mist 
 Standing as though time had died 
 
 Since they kissed. 
 
 Whose deep roots, alive and sound 
 
 Blindly reach 
 Mingling in the fertile ground 
 
 Each with each — 
 
 Pray that we, when gaunt and old 
 
 Like bare trees 
 Through our common earth may hold 
 
 Close, like these ! 
 
 85 
 
Winter Valley 
 
 I 
 
 Grey grasses drown 
 
 In thin brown water 
 
 Wound like a chain on the valley's 
 
 Sunken breast. 
 
 Fallen leaves on the stream 
 Float motionless — rest — 
 So secretly the pale 
 Water winds around 
 Toward hidden pools, 
 
 Or sinking in the earth 
 Is drowned. 
 
 II 
 
 Curved crimson stems, 
 Thorny fingers of vine, 
 Reach toward the wind. 
 
 Sunlight, thin and cold, 
 Touches them — they shine. 
 
 86 
 
Nothing passes for thorns to hold — 
 
 Red thorns, 
 
 Catching at shadows of the wind. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Silence in the valley, 
 Silence without wings — 
 
 Like the caught breath 
 Of an unspoken word 
 When no words come. 
 
 Withered reeds, and thin brown water 
 Above the reeds 
 Are dumb. 
 
 IV 
 
 For what are you waiting, winter valley. 
 Withered valley, brown with reeds? 
 You are hushed with waiting. 
 
 You are old with secrets. 
 
 You are tranquil with forgetting. 
 
 You are harsh with thorns 
 Of fruits long vanished. 
 
V. Love Poems in Autumn 
 
Ballad 
 
 Follow, follow me into the South, 
 And if you are brave and wise 
 
 I'll buy you laughter for your mouth, 
 Sorrow for your eyes. 
 
 I'll buy you laughter, wild and sweet, 
 And sorrow, grey and still. 
 
 But you must follow with willing feet 
 Over the farthest hill. 
 
 Follow, follow me Into the South, 
 You may return tomorrow 
 
 Wearing my kisses on your mouth. 
 In your eyes my sorrow. 
 
 91 
 
The Pathway of Black Leaves 
 
 I. THE TURNING 
 
 The pathway opened before her eyes 
 Between black leaves — 
 She laughed, and shivered, and turned aside 
 From the dusty road. 
 
 Her feet moved on like heart-beats, 
 
 She could not stop them ; 
 
 Relentlessly each step fulfilled itself 
 
 And the steps behind it — 
 
 A hidden chain, drawing her onward 
 
 Captive, 
 
 And yet she said : " Now I walk free 
 At last!" 
 
 II. TOLL-GATE 
 The sign read: 
 
 *' Paupers may pass untaxed. 
 The Rich shall pay a penny. 
 The Poor 
 
 Must give all they possess." 
 92 
 
She emptied her pockets bravely and passed through . 
 
 They gave her a golden coin in return for her silver, 
 
 Bearing on one side the head of a king, 
 
 And on the other a worn inscription 
 
 Curved like a wreath 
 
 And written in a tongue she did not know. 
 
 III. THE INN 
 
 There was the inn, beside the path, 
 
 Standing like the words of an ancient prophet 
 
 Forgotten long, now suddenly come true. 
 
 " They who break bread here 
 Shall not eat for hunger; 
 They who lie here 
 Shall not sleep." 
 
 All night long the black leaves, one by one, 
 Laughed, and shivered, and fell into darkness. 
 
 IV. RETURN 
 
 She has come home 
 
 To the house she knew : 
 
 But she has forgotten 
 
 The square oaken smile of the door. 
 
 The room is a stranger, 
 
 The fire is sullen; 
 
 93 
 
On her hair a black leaf shines 
 And clings where it fell. 
 
 Against her heart 
 
 She has hidden away 
 
 The bitter golden profile of a king. 
 
 94 
 
Elegy 
 
 I would be autumn earth, and hold 
 
 Your beautiful body, slain, 
 
 Where, lying still and cold. 
 
 Only the winter rain 
 
 Shall touch your limbs and face; 
 
 Where the white frost shall wed 
 
 Your body to black mould 
 
 In the close, passionless embrace 
 
 Of that dark marriage bed : 
 
 I would be autumn earth, and hold 
 
 Your beautiful body, dead. 
 
 95 
 
Sequence 
 
 I. ARRIVAL 
 
 96 
 
 Shining highways 
 
 Sing to your step, 
 
 Windows beckon, 
 
 Doorways open a square embrace. 
 
 Doors laugh gently , 
 
 Swinging together 
 Behind you. 
 
 II. THE TOWER 
 
 There's a flag on my tower. 
 
 And my windows 
 
 Are orange to the night. 
 
 They are set in grey stone that frowns 
 
 At the black wind. 
 
 Inside, there's a guest at my hearth, 
 
 And a fire 
 
 Painting the grey stone gold. 
 
 My windows are black 
 
 With the hungry night peering through them. 
 
Blackness lurks in corners, 
 Wind snatches the sparks, 
 Tongs and poker jangle together 
 Like the iron bones 
 Of a man that was hanged. 
 
 III. THEY WHO DANCE 
 
 The feet of dancers 
 
 Shine with mirth, 
 
 Their hearts are vibrant as bells : 
 
 The air flows by them 
 Divided like water 
 Cut by a gleaming ship. 
 
 Triumphantly their bodies sing. 
 Their eyes are blind 
 With music. 
 
 They move through threatening ghosts 
 Feeling them cool as mist 
 On their brows. 
 
 They who dance 
 
 Find infinite golden floors 
 
 Beneath their feet. 
 
 97 
 
98 
 
 IV. PIANISSIMO 
 
 I took Night 
 
 Into my arms, 
 
 Night lay upon my breast. 
 
 If night had wings 
 
 She would have brought me 
 
 Stars for my hair. 
 
 The stars laughed 
 
 Lightly 
 
 From far away. 
 
 About my shoulders 
 White mist curled. 
 
 V. PORTRAIT BY ZULOAGA 
 
 Death lies in wait 
 
 For those who do not know 
 
 What they desire, 
 
 And Hell for those 
 
 Who fear what they have taken. 
 
 These hands are wrinkled 
 
 From stretching forth, 
 
 Brown 
 
 From the winds blowing upon them. 
 
 They are strong with seizing. 
 They do not tremble. 
 
VI. GESTURES 
 
 Let there be dancing figures 
 On our wine-flask, 
 Swastikas on our rug, . 
 Inscriptions in our rings 
 And on our dwelling. 
 
 Let us build ritual 
 
 For our worship. 
 
 Pledge our love 
 
 With vows and holy promises. 
 
 If oaths are broken, 
 
 Let it be darkly 
 
 With threatening gestures. 
 
 Thus we ignore 
 That we love and die 
 Like insects. 
 
 VII. VEILS 
 
 I shall punish your blindness 
 With a veil. 
 
 I shall choose words that join 
 Gaily word to word, 
 I shall weave them flauntingly 
 Into veil upon veil, 
 
 99 
 
I shall wind them defiantly 
 Over my lips, over my eyes. 
 
 You shall not see your name 
 On my lips, 
 
 You shall not see your image 
 In my eyes! 
 
 And through my veils I shall not see 
 That you are blind. 
 
 VIII. FREEDOM 
 
 I would be free 
 
 From two old superstitions. 
 
 Thanks and Forgiveness. 
 
 So I would think of you 
 As Flame, 
 As Wind, 
 As Night, 
 
 To whom I have been 
 Wind, 
 And Flame 
 And Night, 
 
 Together burned and swept, 
 
 Now smothered 
 
 In separate darkness. 
 
 lOO 
 
IX. MUD 
 
 I am dazed and weary 
 From the shapelessness 
 Of what I am — 
 
 I am poured 
 
 Among haphazard stones 
 
 In meaningless patterns. 
 
 Yesterday's sun dried me 
 Between rounded cobbles, 
 Today's deluge sweeps me 
 Toward alien pavements, 
 Tomorrow's sun shall dry me 
 In a new design. 
 
 Better the turbid gutter 
 Toward the open sea ! 
 
 X. FOOLS SAY 
 
 November's breath 
 
 Is black in the branches of trees 
 
 And under the bushes, 
 
 Harsh rain 
 
 Whips down the rustling dance 
 
 Of leaves. 
 
 lOI 
 
There is smoke 
 
 In the throat of the wind, 
 
 Its teeth 
 
 Bite away beauty. 
 
 Let fools say: 
 
 " Spring 
 
 Will come again 1 " 
 
 102 
 
Disillusion 
 
 I touch joy and It crumbles under my fingers — 
 The dust from it rises and fills the world, 
 It blinds my eyes — I cannot see the sun. 
 A choking fog of dust shuts me apart. 
 
 I remember the sparkling wind on a bright autumn 
 
 morning, 
 I let down my hair and danced in the golden gale. 
 Then chased the wind as the wind chased fallen 
 
 leaves — 
 Wind cannot be caught and tamed like a bird. 
 
 I touch joy and it crumbles to dust in my fingers. 
 
 103 
 
November Afternoon 
 
 Upon our heads 
 
 The oak leaves fall 
 
 Like silent benedictions 
 
 Closing Autumn's gorgeous ritual, 
 
 And we, upborne by worship, 
 
 Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills. 
 
 Beloved 
 
 How can I know 
 
 What gods are yours, 
 
 How can I guess the visions of your spirit. 
 
 Or hear 
 
 The silent prayers your heart has said ? 
 
 Only by this I feel 
 
 Your gods akin to mine. 
 
 That when our lips have met 
 
 On this last golden Autumn afternoon 
 
 They have confessed in silence 
 
 Our kisses were less precious than our dreams. 
 
 Today, our passion drowned in beauty. 
 We turn away our faces toward the hills 
 Where purple haze, old incense. 
 Spreads its veil. 
 104 
 
 I 
 
Yareth at Solomon's Tomb 
 
 At last 
 Your search is at an end, 
 King Solomon, 
 
 You, restless dreamer, 
 For whom each face held promise 
 Unfulfilled, 
 
 Whose hungry arms held many women, 
 (Though none could fill your need) 
 Who seized, but never loved, 
 This is your sepulchre . . . 
 
 I who till today 
 Questioned my heart 
 Now find it buried with you 
 In this tomb ; 
 
 So now I can forgive you 
 That you never believed 
 My love! 
 
 105 
 
Argolis 
 
 Like sun on grasses 
 
 Warming to life 
 
 Quaint beetles, curious weeds, 
 
 Till earth awakens, pregnant beneath its rays 
 
 So came the shepherds down to Argolis. 
 
 As nameless trees 
 
 Cast cloud-grey shadows there 
 
 On moon-pale, tarnished snow. 
 
 Till snow and shadow are lost, 
 
 Ahke confused and forgotten 
 
 Among the withered reeds — 
 
 So lies their memory across its heart. 
 
 io6 
 
St. Faith's Eve 
 
 We stood together on a balcony 
 An hour when the night 
 Died into blankness, 
 And light mist 
 
 Curling beneath us, hid the earth, 
 And the cold, unburied stars 
 Drew further into space . . . 
 
 I turned to meet your eyes 
 And saw 
 
 Like a light, rosy veil 
 Your flesh sink gently down 
 Leaving only the simple skeleton 
 And a white voice which said: 
 " This still is I, 
 Do you love me 
 Now?" 
 
 Quietly, and without sadness 
 I looked upon you, 
 For comfort blindly reached my soul 
 And primitive beauty. 
 Without passion, without fervour, 
 I spoke at last: 
 107 
 
" Somehow Faith 
 
 Shines from your empty eye-holes, 
 
 And Truth 
 
 Speaks mutely from your fleshless jaws. 
 
 I choose your slceleton to lie with 
 
 In the peaceful bed of earth 
 
 Through all the dreamless, mornless, utter night ! " 
 
 io8 
 
Poems of Elijah Hay 
 
The Golden Stag 
 
 hungry hearted ones, sharp-limbed, keen-eyed, 
 
 Let me have place ! 
 
 1 too would ride 
 
 On your fantastic chase. 
 
 Your hunger is a silver hunting horn, 
 
 I heard it sweep 
 The frozen, peaceful morn : 
 
 Its note bit me from sleep. 
 
 I will ride with you, hunters, even I, 
 
 Toward a far hill 
 To see the golden stag against the sky 
 
 Uncaptured still. 
 
 Ill 
 
To Anne Knish 
 
 Madam, you intrigue me ! 
 
 I have come this far 
 
 Cautiously sneezing 
 
 Along the dusty highroad of convention, 
 
 But now it leads no farther toward you. 
 
 Today 
 
 I have reached the cross roads — 
 A weather-beaten sign-board 
 Blazons undecipherable wisdom 
 Of which the arrow-heads, even, 
 Have been effaced. 
 
 Eastward, it leads through cultivated fields 
 
 Of intellectual fodder. 
 
 Where well-fed cattle, herding together, 
 
 Browse content : 
 
 Are you of these? 
 
 Westward, is a lane, hedge-bordered. 
 Shady, and of gentle indirection. 
 In May, a bower of sentimental bloom, 
 But this November weather 
 
 112 
 
Betrays its destiny, the poultry yard 
 Where geese foregather. 
 
 And there ahead, the ancient, swampy way 
 Modernized by a feeble plank or two : 
 But the morass of passion lures me not ! 
 I see a vision of two plunging feet. 
 Discreetly shod, yet struggling in vain — 
 Slime 
 
 Creeps ankle-high, knee-high, thigh-high. 
 Till all is swallowed save a brave silk hat 
 Floating alone, a symbol of the creed 
 I perished shedding. ' 
 
 Yet somewhere you 
 
 Intelligent of my distress 
 
 Smile, undisturbed — 
 
 I have no pedlar's license to submit, 
 
 No wares to cry, nor any gift to bring — 
 
 I do not know 
 
 Anything new — 
 
 In truth, then, what have I to do with you ? 
 
 Yet, madam, you intrigue me! 
 
 113 
 
Lolita 
 
 How curious to find in you, Lolita, 
 
 The geisha 
 
 Who sits and strums In the immortal 
 
 Attitude of submission. 
 
 There is a ledger in place of her soul ! 
 
 Your shoulders sang 
 
 For admiration, 
 
 Your hair wept for kisses, 
 
 Your voice curved softly, a caress — 
 
 You came among us as a suppliant. 
 
 What had we you desired? 
 
 Bringing to market stolen goods, 
 Holding to view used charms, 
 Behold a hawker's spirit! 
 
 Eagles perch proudly 
 
 In isolation, 
 
 They swoop to seize a living prey — 
 
 Crows hover to feed. 
 
 Waiting with patience till the soul is fled 
 
 Leaving a helpless body — carrion — 
 
 (Vile thoughts obsess me!) 
 
 What did you want, Lolita ? 
 114 
 
Spectrum of Mrs. Q. 
 
 Fear not, beautiful lady, 
 
 That I shall ravish you ! 
 
 Your arms are languorous lilies — 
 
 There is not a thorn 
 
 In all your slender greenness. 
 
 And you are sweet to madden buzzing bees! 
 
 Fear not, beautiful lady, 
 A hard, black cricket 
 Inspects you. 
 
 115 
 
Epitaph 
 
 Courage is a sword, 
 Honour, but a shield 
 Here lies a turtle. 
 
 ii6 
 
A Sixpence 
 
 OBVERSE 
 
 If I loved you, 
 You would rear 
 Eight healthy children 
 To our love, 
 (Forgetting me) 
 And be happy. 
 
 REVERSE 
 
 But I do not love you, 
 So you will write 
 Eight hundred poems 
 To our love, 
 (Forgetting me) 
 And be happy ! 
 
 117 
 
Three Spectra 
 
 Of Mrs. X. 
 You — 
 
 Too well fed for rebellion, 
 Too lazy for self-respect, too timid for murder, 
 Disgracefully steal the trade-mark of the fairy-tale 
 "And they lived together happily 
 Ever after! " 
 
 Of Mrs. Z. 
 Madam, you are ever retreating. 
 But are never 
 Gone — 
 
 Some day I shall pursue you 
 Hoping to see you 
 Vanish. 
 
 Of Mrs. Andsoforth. 
 Old ladies, bless their hearts, 
 Are contented as house-flies 
 Dozing against the wall. 
 But you, 
 
 Imprisoned in the forties, 
 Delirious, frenzied, helpless. 
 Are a fly, drowning in a cocktail ! 
 ii8 
 
Two Commentaries 
 
 I. TO AN ACTOR 
 
 You are a gilded card-case 
 
 Which I took for a purse. 
 
 Your spirit's coin was squandered long ago, 
 
 And In Its place 
 
 Are white cards, all alike, 
 
 Bearing a word, 
 
 A name, 
 
 Connoting nothing. 
 
 2. PHILOSOPHER TO ARTIST 
 
 You are a raisin, but I am a nut! 
 
 What meat there Is to you 
 
 Can be seen at a glance — 
 
 (Seeds, when they exist, are bitter) 
 
 My calm, round glossiness, 
 
 (For I am sound and free 
 
 From wormy restlessness of spirit) 
 
 Defies your casual Inspection. 
 
 It takes sharp teeth 
 And some determination 
 To taste my kernel ! 
 
 119 
 
A Womanly Woman 
 
 You sit, a snug, warm kitten 
 Blinking through the window 
 At a storm-haunted world — 
 
 Sleet wind caterwauls 
 
 Through icy trees, 
 
 Which clack their hands at you 
 
 Tauntingly. 
 
 Why should you leave 
 
 Radiator and rubber-plant? 
 
 Do people stand at attention to mourn a hero 
 
 When they behold 
 
 A frozen kitten 
 
 In a gutter? 
 
 120 
 
Lolita Now Is Old 
 
 Lolita now is old, 
 
 She sits in the park, watching the young men pass 
 
 And huddles her shawl against the cold. 
 
 One night last summer when the moon was red, 
 
 Lolita, hearing an old song sung 
 
 And amorous laughter down the street 
 
 Left her bed — 
 
 Lolita thought she was young. 
 
 With ancient finery on her back, 
 
 A lace mantilla hiding her grey head, 
 
 She crept into the warm and alien night. 
 
 Her trembling knees remembered the languid pace 
 
 Of beauty on adventure bent — her fan 
 
 Waved challenges with unforgotten grace. 
 
 Cunningly she played her part 
 
 For to her peering age 
 
 Love was a well-remembered art. 
 
 Footsteps followed her — footsteps drew near! 
 
 She dropped a rose hush, he is here! 
 
 There came hard arms and a panting kiss — 
 
 121 
 
He felt the fraud of those withered lips, 
 He cursed and spat — " Was it for this, 
 You came, old woman, to the park? " 
 Lolita gathered skirts and fled 
 Through the dim dark. 
 
 Lolita huddles her shawl against the cold. 
 She sits and mumbles by the fire. In truth 
 Lolita knows she is old. 
 
 122 
 
The Shining Bird 
 
 A bird is three things: 
 
 Feathers, flight and song, 
 
 And feathers are the least of these. 
 
 At last I hold her In my hands 
 
 The shining bird whose flight along 
 
 The perilous rim of trees 
 
 Has made my days adventurous, my spirit strong. 
 
 And now her wings 
 
 Are still - — her vivid song 
 
 But ceaseless twitterings. 
 
 Her words are feathers, falling 
 Lightly, relentlessly, and without rest, 
 Revealing to my face 
 Her pinched and starveling breast 
 Like poultry, dead and unashamed 
 And naked in the market place. 
 
 A shattered flash of wings, 
 
 A broken song. 
 
 Echo and shine along the rim of trees. 
 
 123 
 
The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere 
 
 Queen Guinevere, 
 
 Three sleek and silent cats 
 
 Bring you gifts from me. 
 
 The first is a grey one, 
 
 (I wanted a white one, 
 
 I could not find one snowy white enough, 
 
 Queen Guinevere,) 
 
 He brings you purple grapes. 
 
 The second is a grey one, 
 
 (I wanted a sleek one, 
 
 Where could I find one sleek enough. 
 
 Queen Guinevere?) 
 
 He brings you a red apple. 
 
 The third one, too, is grey. 
 
 (I wanted a black one. 
 
 Not Hate itself could find one black enough. 
 
 Queen Guinevere,) 
 
 He brings you poison toadstools. 
 
 I send you three grey cats with gifts — 
 (For uniformity of metaphor. 
 
 124 
 
Since Bacchus, Satan, and the Hangman 
 
 Are not contemporaneous in my mythology) 
 
 I send you three grey cats with gifts, 
 
 Queen Guinevere, 
 
 To warn you, sleekly, silently 
 
 To pay the forfeit. 
 
 125 
 
Ode in the New Mode 
 
 Your face 
 
 Was a temple 
 
 From which your soul 
 
 Came to me beneath arched brows: 
 
 And my soul knelt at your feet. 
 
 Then 
 
 Inadvertently 
 
 I saw your leg 
 
 Curved and turned like a bird-song, 
 
 Dying into esctatic silence at the garter . . . 
 
 Wretched 
 
 Women ! 
 
 When you are wholly lovely 
 
 Man cannot forget either of his two afflictions, 
 
 Soul, or body! 
 
 126 
 
Night 
 
 I opened the door 
 And night stared at me like a fool, 
 Heavy dull night, clouded and safe — 
 I turned again toward the uncertainties 
 Of life withindoors. 
 
 Once night was a lion. 
 No, years ago, night was a python 
 Weaving designs against space 
 With undulations of his being — 
 Night was a siren once. 
 
 O sodden, middle-aged night 1 
 
 THE END 
 
Acknowledgments are due to Poetry, a Magazine 
 of P'erse, Others, Reedy's Mirror, Contemporary 
 Verse, The Midland, The Little Review, The Lyric, 
 The Masses, etc., by whose courtesy certain of these 
 poems have been reprinted. 
 

 
 
 

 
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