A Woman of Thirty Part 4

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 Fas.h.i.+oned 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.

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 me?

Is it not heat, Or cold, Or a lion?

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, banis.h.i.+ng 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.

III. SOUVENIR

Harlequin, seeing me gay You loved me, For fools need mirth,

O solemn Harlequin!

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

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-s.h.i.+ning 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...

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 pa.s.sionate kisses?

They feel so thin and cool Like mist.)

The birches s.h.i.+ver As though the night-wind stirred them.

Can we be dead?