American Poetry, 1922 Part 18

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone; I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

VI

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.

Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them p.r.o.ne upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere In shapes of s.h.i.+fting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air.

O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her ma.s.sive sandal set on stone.

 

VII

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!

Give back my book and take my kiss instead.

Was it my enemy or my friend I heard?-- "What a big book for such a little head!"

Come, I will show you now my newest hat, And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink.

Oh, I shall love you still and all of that.

I never again shall tell you what I think.

I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly; You will not catch me reading any more; I shall be called a wife to pattern by; And some day when you knock and push the door, Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy, I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.

VIII

Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find The roots of last year's roses in my breast; I am as surely riper in my mind As if the fruit stood in the stalls confessed.

Laugh at the unshed leaf, say what you will, Call me in all things what I was before, A flutterer in the wind, a woman still; I tell you I am what I was and more.

My branches weigh me down, frost cleans the air, My sky is black with small birds bearing south; Say what you will, confuse me with fine care, Put by my word as but an April truth,-- Autumn is no less on me that a rose Hugs the brown bough and sighs before it goes.