The Ghetto, And Other Poems Part 9

Inadequate night...

And mooned white memory Of a tropic sea...

How softly it comes up Like an ungathered lily.

THE EDGE

I thought to die that night in the solitude where they would never find me...

But there was time...

And I lay quietly on the drawn knees of the mountain, staring into the abyss...

I do not know how long...

I could not count the hours, they ran so fast Like little bare-foot urchins--shaking my hands away...

But I remember Somewhere water trickled like a thin severed vein...

And a wind came out of the gra.s.s, Touching me gently, tentatively, like a paw.

As the night grew The gray cloud that had covered the sky like sackcloth Fell in ashen folds about the hills, Like hooded virgins, pulling their cloaks about them...

There must have been a spent moon, For the Tall One's veil held a s.h.i.+mmer of silver...

That too I remember...

And the tenderly rocking mountain Silence And beating stars...

Dawn Lay like a waxen hand upon the world, And folded hills Broke into a sudden wonder of peaks, stemming clear and cold, Till the Tall One bloomed like a lily, Flecked with sun, Fine as a golden pollen-- It seemed a wind might blow it from the snow.

I smelled the raw sweet essences of things, And heard spiders in the leaves And ticking of little feet, As tiny creatures came out of their doors To see G.o.d pouring light into his star...

... It seemed life held No future and no past but this...

And I too got up stiffly from the earth, And held my heart up like a cup...

THE GARDEN

Bountiful Givers, I look along the years And see the flowers you threw...

Anemones And sprigs of gray Spa.r.s.e heather of the rocks, Or a wild violet Or daisy of a daisied field...

But each your best.

I might have worn them on my breast To wilt in the long day...

I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase And watched each petal sallowing...

I might have held them so--mechanically-- Till the wind winnowed all the leaves And left upon my hands A little smear of dust.

Instead I hid them in the soft warm loam Of a dim shadowed place...

Deep In a still cool grotto, Lit only by the memories of stars And the wide and luminous eyes Of dead poets That love me and that I love...

Deep... deep...

Where none may see--not even ye who gave-- About my soul your garden beautiful.

UNDER-SONG

There is music in the strong Deep-throated bush, Whisperings of song Heard in the leaves' hush-- Ballads of the trees In tongues unknown-- A reminiscent tone On minor keys...

Boughs swaying to and fro Though no winds pa.s.s...

Faint odors in the gra.s.s Where no flowers grow, And flutterings of wings And faint first notes, Once babbled on the boughs Of faded springs.

Is it music from the graves Of all things fair Trembling on the staves Of s.p.a.cious air-- Fluted by the winds Songs with no words-- Sonatas from the throats Of master birds?

One peering through the husk Of darkness thrown May hear it in the dusk-- That ancient tone, Silvery as the light Of long dead stars Yet falling through the night In trembling bars.

A WORN ROSE

Where to-day would a dainty buyer Imbibe your scented juice, Pale ruin with a heart of fire; Drain your succulence with her lips, Grown sapless from much use...

Make minister of her desire A chalice cup where no bee sips-- Where no wasp wanders in?

Close to her white flesh housed an hour, One held you... her spent form Drew on yours for its wasted dower-- What favour could she do you more?

Yet, of all who drink therein, None know it is the warm Odorous heart of a ravished flower Tingles so in her mouth's red core...

IRON WINE

The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine, It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies, And purple, like the blood of elderberries.

Surely it is a strong wine--juice distilled of the fierce iron.

I am drunk of its fumes.

I feel its fiery flux Diffusing, permeating, Working some strange alchemy...

So that I turn aside from the goodly board, So that I look askance upon the common cup, And from the mouths of crucibles Suck forth the acrid sap.

DISPOSSESSED

Tender and tremulous green of leaves Turned up by the wind, Tw.a.n.ging among the vines-- Wind in the gra.s.s Blowing a clear path For the new-stripped soul to pa.s.s...

The naked soul in the sunlight...

Like a wisp of smoke in the sunlight On the hill-side s.h.i.+mmering.

Dance light on the wind, little soul, Like a thistle-down floating Over the b.u.t.terflies And the lumbering bees...

Come away from that tree And its shadow grey as a stone...

Bathe in the pools of light On the hillside s.h.i.+mmering-- s.h.i.+ning and wetted and warm in the sun-spray falling like golden rain--

But do not linger and look At that bleak thing under the tree.

THE STAR

Last night I watched a star fall like a great pearl into the sea, Till my ego expanding encompa.s.sed sea and star, Containing both as in a trembling cup.

THE TIDINGS (Easter 1916)

Censored lies that mimic truth...

Censored truth as pale as fear...

My heart is like a rousing bell-- And but the dead to hear...

My heart is like a mother bird, Circling ever higher, And the nest-tree rimmed about By a forest fire...

My heart is like a lover foiled By a broken stair-- They are fighting to-night in Sackville Street, And I am not there!