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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:44 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:44 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1247-0.txt b/1247-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5930f46 --- /dev/null +++ b/1247-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1717 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1247 *** + +SECOND APRIL + +By Edna St. Vincent Millay + + + + + TO + MY BELOVED FRIEND + CAROLINE B. DOW + + + +CONTENTS + + SPRING INLAND + CITY TREES TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG WRAITH + JOURNEY EBB + EEL-GRASS ELAINE + ELEGY BEFORE DEATH BURIAL + THE BEAN-STALK MARIPOSA + WEEDS THE LITTLE HILL + PASSER MORTUUS EST DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + PASTORAL LAMENT + ASSAULT EXILED + TRAVEL THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + LOW-TIDE ODE TO SILENCE + SONG OF A SECOND APRIL MEMORIAL TO D. C. + ROSEMARY UNNAMED SONNETS I-XII + THE POET AND HIS BOOK WILD SWANS + ALMS + + + + + +SECOND APRIL + + + + +SPRING + + To what purpose, April, do you return again? + Beauty is not enough. + You can no longer quiet me with the redness + Of little leaves opening stickily. + I know what I know. + The sun is hot on my neck as I observe + The spikes of the crocus. + The smell of the earth is good. + It is apparent that there is no death. + But what does that signify? + Not only under ground are the brains of men + Eaten by maggots, + Life in itself + Is nothing, + An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. + It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, + April + Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. + + + + +CITY TREES + + The trees along this city street, + Save for the traffic and the trains, + Would make a sound as thin and sweet + As trees in country lanes. + + And people standing in their shade + Out of a shower, undoubtedly + Would hear such music as is made + Upon a country tree. + + Oh, little leaves that are so dumb + Against the shrieking city air, + I watch you when the wind has come,-- + I know what sound is there. + + + + +THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG + + God had called us, and we came; + Our loved Earth to ashes left; + Heaven was a neighbor's house, + Open to us, bereft. + + Gay the lights of Heaven showed, + And 'twas God who walked ahead; + Yet I wept along the road, + Wanting my own house instead. + + Wept unseen, unheeded cried, + "All you things my eyes have kissed, + Fare you well! We meet no more, + Lovely, lovely tattered mist! + + Weary wings that rise and fall + All day long above the fire!"-- + Red with heat was every wall, + Rough with heat was every wire-- + + "Fare you well, you little winds + That the flying embers chase! + Fare you well, you shuddering day, + With your hands before your face! + + And, ah, blackened by strange blight, + Or to a false sun unfurled, + Now forevermore goodbye, + All the gardens in the world! + + On the windless hills of Heaven, + That I have no wish to see, + White, eternal lilies stand, + By a lake of ebony. + + But the Earth forevermore + Is a place where nothing grows,-- + Dawn will come, and no bud break; + Evening, and no blossom close. + + Spring will come, and wander slow + Over an indifferent land, + Stand beside an empty creek, + Hold a dead seed in her hand." + + God had called us, and we came, + But the blessed road I trod + Was a bitter road to me, + And at heart I questioned God. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the heart would most desire, + Held Earth naught save souls of sinners + Worth the saving from a fire? + + Withered grass,--the wasted growing! + Aimless ache of laden boughs!" + Little things God had forgotten + Called me, from my burning house. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the eye could ask to see, + All the things I ever knew + Are this blaze in back of me." + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the ear could think to lack, + All the things I ever knew + Are this roaring at my back." + + It was God who walked ahead, + Like a shepherd to the fold; + In his footsteps fared the weak, + And the weary and the old, + + Glad enough of gladness over, + Ready for the peace to be,-- + But a thing God had forgotten + Was the growing bones of me. + + And I drew a bit apart, + And I lagged a bit behind, + And I thought on Peace Eternal, + Lest He look into my mind: + + And I gazed upon the sky, + And I thought of Heavenly Rest,-- + And I slipped away like water + Through the fingers of the blest! + + All their eyes were fixed on Glory, + Not a glance brushed over me; + "Alleluia! Alleluia!" + Up the road,--and I was free. + + And my heart rose like a freshet, + And it swept me on before, + Giddy as a whirling stick, + Till I felt the earth once more. + + All the earth was charred and black, + Fire had swept from pole to pole; + And the bottom of the sea + Was as brittle as a bowl; + + And the timbered mountain-top + Was as naked as a skull,-- + Nothing left, nothing left, + Of the Earth so beautiful! + + "Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?" + "You are all I have," I said; + "What is left to take my mind up, + Living always, and you dead?" + + "Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something! + Make a sign that I can see! + For a keepsake! To keep always! + Quick!--before God misses me!" + + And I listened for a voice;-- + But my heart was all I heard; + Not a screech-owl, not a loon, + Not a tree-toad said a word. + + And I waited for a sign;-- + Coals and cinders, nothing more; + And a little cloud of smoke + Floating on a valley floor. + + And I peered into the smoke + Till it rotted, like a fog:-- + There, encompassed round by fire, + Stood a blue-flag in a bog! + + Little flames came wading out, + Straining, straining towards its stem, + But it was so blue and tall + That it scorned to think of them! + + Red and thirsty were their tongues, + As the tongues of wolves must be, + But it was so blue and tall-- + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! + + All my heart became a tear, + All my soul became a tower, + Never loved I anything + As I loved that tall blue flower! + + It was all the little boats + That had ever sailed the sea, + It was all the little books + That had gone to school with me; + + On its roots like iron claws + Rearing up so blue and tall,-- + It was all the gallant Earth + With its back against a wall! + + In a breath, ere I had breathed,-- + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!-- + I was kneeling at its side, + And it leaned its head on me! + + Crumbling stones and sliding sand + Is the road to Heaven now; + Icy at my straining knees + Drags the awful under-tow; + + Soon but stepping-stones of dust + Will the road to Heaven be,-- + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + "There--there, my blue-flag flower; + Hush--hush--go to sleep; + That is only God you hear, + Counting up His folded sheep! + + Lullabye--lullabye-- + That is only God that calls, + Missing me, seeking me, + Ere the road to nothing falls! + + He will set His mighty feet + Firmly on the sliding sand; + Like a little frightened bird + I will creep into His hand; + + I will tell Him all my grief, + I will tell Him all my sin; + He will give me half His robe + For a cloak to wrap you in. + + Lullabye--lullabye--" + Rocks the burnt-out planet free!-- + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + Ah, the voice of love at last! + Lo, at last the face of light! + And the whole of His white robe + For a cloak against the night! + + And upon my heart asleep + All the things I ever knew!-- + "Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, + For a flower so tall and blue?" + + All's well and all's well! + Gay the lights of Heaven show! + In some moist and Heavenly place + We will set it out to grow. + + + + +JOURNEY + + Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass + And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind + Blow over me--I am so tired, so tired + Of passing pleasant places! All my life, + Following Care along the dusty road, + Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; + Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand + Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long + Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; + And now I fain would lie in this long grass + And close my eyes. + Yet onward! + Cat birds call + Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk + Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, + Drawing the twilight close about their throats. + Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines + Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees + Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; + Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern + And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread + Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, + Look back and beckon ere they disappear. + Only my heart, only my heart responds. + Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side + All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot + And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- + But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, + And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, + The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, + Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road + A gateless garden, and an open path: + My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. + + + + +EEL-GRASS + + No matter what I say, + All that I really love + Is the rain that flattens on the bay, + And the eel-grass in the cove; + The jingle-shells that lie and bleach + At the tide-line, and the trace + Of higher tides along the beach: + Nothing in this place. + + + + +ELEGY BEFORE DEATH + + There will be rose and rhododendron + When you are dead and under ground; + Still will be heard from white syringas + Heavy with bees, a sunny sound; + + Still will the tamaracks be raining + After the rain has ceased, and still + Will there be robins in the stubble, + Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. + + Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; + Nothing will know that you are gone, + Saving alone some sullen plough-land + None but yourself sets foot upon; + + Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed + Nothing will know that you are dead,-- + These, and perhaps a useless wagon + Standing beside some tumbled shed. + + Oh, there will pass with your great passing + Little of beauty not your own,-- + Only the light from common water, + Only the grace from simple stone! + + + + +THE BEAN-STALK + + Ho, Giant! This is I! + I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! + La,--but it's lovely, up so high! + + This is how I came,--I put + Here my knee, there my foot, + Up and up, from shoot to shoot-- + And the blessed bean-stalk thinning + Like the mischief all the time, + Till it took me rocking, spinning, + In a dizzy, sunny circle, + Making angles with the root, + Far and out above the cackle + Of the city I was born in, + Till the little dirty city + In the light so sheer and sunny + Shone as dazzling bright and pretty + As the money that you find + In a dream of finding money-- + What a wind! What a morning!-- + + Till the tiny, shiny city, + When I shot a glance below, + Shaken with a giddy laughter, + Sick and blissfully afraid, + Was a dew-drop on a blade, + And a pair of moments after + Was the whirling guess I made,-- + And the wind was like a whip + + Cracking past my icy ears, + And my hair stood out behind, + And my eyes were full of tears, + Wide-open and cold, + More tears than they could hold, + The wind was blowing so, + And my teeth were in a row, + Dry and grinning, + And I felt my foot slip, + And I scratched the wind and whined, + And I clutched the stalk and jabbered, + With my eyes shut blind,-- + What a wind! What a wind! + + Your broad sky, Giant, + Is the shelf of a cupboard; + I make bean-stalks, I'm + A builder, like yourself, + But bean-stalks is my trade, + I couldn't make a shelf, + Don't know how they're made, + Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant-- + La, what a climb! + + + + +WEEDS + + White with daisies and red with sorrel + And empty, empty under the sky!-- + Life is a quest and love a quarrel-- + Here is a place for me to lie. + + Daisies spring from damned seeds, + And this red fire that here I see + Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, + Cursed by farmers thriftily. + + But here, unhated for an hour, + The sorrel runs in ragged flame, + The daisy stands, a bastard flower, + Like flowers that bear an honest name. + + And here a while, where no wind brings + The baying of a pack athirst, + May sleep the sleep of blessed things, + The blood too bright, the brow accurst. + + + + +PASSER MORTUUS EST + + Death devours all lovely things; + Lesbia with her sparrow + Shares the darkness,--presently + Every bed is narrow. + + Unremembered as old rain + Dries the sheer libation, + And the little petulant hand + Is an annotation. + + After all, my erstwhile dear, + My no longer cherished, + Need we say it was not love, + Now that love is perished? + + + + +PASTORAL + + If it were only still!-- + With far away the shrill + Crying of a cock; + Or the shaken bell + From a cow's throat + Moving through the bushes; + Or the soft shock + Of wizened apples falling + From an old tree + In a forgotten orchard + Upon the hilly rock! + + Oh, grey hill, + Where the grazing herd + Licks the purple blossom, + Crops the spiky weed! + Oh, stony pasture, + Where the tall mullein + Stands up so sturdy + On its little seed! + + + + +ASSAULT + + I + + I had forgotten how the frogs must sound + After a year of silence, else I think + I should not so have ventured forth alone + At dusk upon this unfrequented road. + + + II + + I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk + Between me and the crying of the frogs? + Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, + That am a timid woman, on her way + From one house to another! + + + + +TRAVEL + + The railroad track is miles away, + And the day is loud with voices speaking, + Yet there isn't a train goes by all day + But I hear its whistle shrieking. + + All night there isn't a train goes by, + Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming + But I see its cinders red on the sky, + And hear its engine steaming. + + My heart is warm with the friends I make, + And better friends I'll not be knowing, + Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, + No matter where it's going. + + + + +LOW-TIDE + + These wet rocks where the tide has been, + Barnacled white and weeded brown + And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, + These wet rocks where the tide went down + Will show again when the tide is high + Faint and perilous, far from shore, + No place to dream, but a place to die,-- + The bottom of the sea once more. + There was a child that wandered through + A giant's empty house all day,-- + House full of wonderful things and new, + But no fit place for a child to play. + + + + +SONG OF A SECOND APRIL + + April this year, not otherwise + Than April of a year ago, + Is full of whispers, full of sighs, + Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; + Hepaticas that pleased you so + Are here again, and butterflies. + + There rings a hammering all day, + And shingles lie about the doors; + In orchards near and far away + The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; + The men are merry at their chores, + And children earnest at their play. + + The larger streams run still and deep, + Noisy and swift the small brooks run + Among the mullein stalks the sheep + Go up the hillside in the sun, + Pensively,--only you are gone, + You that alone I cared to keep. + + + + +ROSEMARY + + For the sake of some things + That be now no more + I will strew rushes + On my chamber-floor, + I will plant bergamot + At my kitchen-door. + + For the sake of dim things + That were once so plain + I will set a barrel + Out to catch the rain, + I will hang an iron pot + On an iron crane. + + Many things be dead and gone + That were brave and gay; + For the sake of these things + I will learn to say, + "An it please you, gentle sirs," + "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!" + + + + +THE POET AND HIS BOOK + + Down, you mongrel, Death! + Back into your kennel! + I have stolen breath + In a stalk of fennel! + You shall scratch and you shall whine + Many a night, and you shall worry + Many a bone, before you bury + One sweet bone of mine! + + When shall I be dead? + When my flesh is withered, + And above my head + Yellow pollen gathered + All the empty afternoon? + When sweet lovers pause and wonder + Who am I that lie thereunder, + Hidden from the moon? + + This my personal death?-- + That lungs be failing + To inhale the breath + Others are exhaling? + This my subtle spirit's end?-- + Ah, when the thawed winter splashes + Over these chance dust and ashes, + Weep not me, my friend! + + Me, by no means dead + In that hour, but surely + When this book, unread, + Rots to earth obscurely, + And no more to any breast, + Close against the clamorous swelling + Of the thing there is no telling, + Are these pages pressed! + + When this book is mould, + And a book of many + Waiting to be sold + For a casual penny, + In a little open case, + In a street unclean and cluttered, + Where a heavy mud is spattered + From the passing drays, + + Stranger, pause and look; + From the dust of ages + Lift this little book, + Turn the tattered pages, + Read me, do not let me die! + Search the fading letters, finding + Steadfast in the broken binding + All that once was I! + + When these veins are weeds, + When these hollowed sockets + Watch the rooty seeds + Bursting down like rockets, + And surmise the spring again, + Or, remote in that black cupboard, + Watch the pink worms writhing upward + At the smell of rain, + + Boys and girls that lie + Whispering in the hedges, + Do not let me die, + Mix me with your pledges; + Boys and girls that slowly walk + In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, + Staring past the pink wild laurel, + Mix me with your talk, + + Do not let me die! + Farmers at your raking, + When the sun is high, + While the hay is making, + When, along the stubble strewn, + Withering on their stalks uneaten, + Strawberries turn dark and sweeten + In the lapse of noon; + + Shepherds on the hills, + In the pastures, drowsing + To the tinkling bells + Of the brown sheep browsing; + Sailors crying through the storm; + Scholars at your study; hunters + Lost amid the whirling winter's + Whiteness uniform; + + Men that long for sleep; + Men that wake and revel;-- + If an old song leap + To your senses' level + At such moments, may it be + Sometimes, though a moment only, + Some forgotten, quaint and homely + Vehicle of me! + + Women at your toil, + Women at your leisure + Till the kettle boil, + Snatch of me your pleasure, + Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; + Women quiet with your weeping + Lest you wake a workman sleeping, + Mix me with your grief! + + Boys and girls that steal + From the shocking laughter + Of the old, to kneel + By a dripping rafter + Under the discolored eaves, + Out of trunks with hingeless covers + Lifting tales of saints and lovers, + Travelers, goblins, thieves, + + Suns that shine by night, + Mountains made from valleys,-- + Bear me to the light, + Flat upon your bellies + By the webby window lie, + Where the little flies are crawling,-- + Read me, margin me with scrawling, + Do not let me die! + + Sexton, ply your trade! + In a shower of gravel + Stamp upon your spade! + Many a rose shall ravel, + Many a metal wreath shall rust + In the rain, and I go singing + Through the lots where you are flinging + Yellow clay on dust! + + + + +ALMS + + My heart is what it was before, + A house where people come and go; + But it is winter with your love, + The sashes are beset with snow. + + I light the lamp and lay the cloth, + I blow the coals to blaze again; + But it is winter with your love, + The frost is thick upon the pane. + + I know a winter when it comes: + The leaves are listless on the boughs; + I watched your love a little while, + And brought my plants into the house. + + I water them and turn them south, + I snap the dead brown from the stem; + But it is winter with your love,-- + I only tend and water them. + + There was a time I stood and watched + The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; + I loved the beggar that I fed, + I cared for what he had to say, + + I stood and watched him out of sight; + Today I reach around the door + And set a bowl upon the step; + My heart is what it was before, + + But it is winter with your love; + I scatter crumbs upon the sill, + And close the window,--and the birds + May take or leave them, as they will. + + + + +INLAND + + People that build their houses inland, + People that buy a plot of ground + Shaped like a house, and build a house there, + Far from the sea-board, far from the sound + + Of water sucking the hollow ledges, + Tons of water striking the shore,-- + What do they long for, as I long for + One salt smell of the sea once more? + + People the waves have not awakened, + Spanking the boats at the harbor's head, + What do they long for, as I long for,-- + Starting up in my inland bed, + + Beating the narrow walls, and finding + Neither a window nor a door, + Screaming to God for death by drowning,-- + One salt taste of the sea once more? + + + + +TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + + Minstrel, what have you to do + With this man that, after you, + Sharing not your happy fate, + Sat as England's Laureate? + Vainly, in these iron days, + Strives the poet in your praise, + Minstrel, by whose singing side + Beauty walked, until you died. + + Still, though none should hark again, + Drones the blue-fly in the pane, + Thickly crusts the blackest moss, + Blows the rose its musk across, + Floats the boat that is forgot + None the less to Camelot. + + Many a bard's untimely death + Lends unto his verses breath; + Here's a song was never sung: + Growing old is dying young. + Minstrel, what is this to you: + That a man you never knew, + When your grave was far and green, + Sat and gossipped with a queen? + + Thalia knows how rare a thing + Is it, to grow old and sing; + When a brown and tepid tide + Closes in on every side. + Who shall say if Shelley's gold + Had withstood it to grow old? + + + + +WRAITH + + "Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, + That you haunt my door?" + --Surely it is not I she's wanting; + Someone living here before-- + "Nobody's in the house but me: + You may come in if you like and see." + + Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,-- + Have you seen her, any of you?-- + Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, + And the garden showing through? + + Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly, + Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, + Asking something, asking it over, + If you get a sound from her.-- + + Ever see her, any of you?-- + Strangest thing I've ever known,-- + Every night since I moved in, + And I came to be alone. + + "Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! + You may not come in! + This is I that you hear rocking; + Nobody's with me, nor has been!" + + Curious, how she tried the window,-- + Odd, the way she tries the door,-- + Wonder just what sort of people + Could have had this house before . . . + + + + +EBB + + I know what my heart is like + Since your love died: + It is like a hollow ledge + Holding a little pool + Left there by the tide, + A little tepid pool, + Drying inward from the edge. + + + + +ELAINE + + OH, come again to Astolat! + I will not ask you to be kind. + And you may go when you will go, + And I will stay behind. + + I will not say how dear you are, + Or ask you if you hold me dear, + Or trouble you with things for you + The way I did last year. + + So still the orchard, Lancelot, + So very still the lake shall be, + You could not guess--though you should guess-- + What is become of me. + + So wide shall be the garden-walk, + The garden-seat so very wide, + You needs must think--if you should think-- + The lily maid had died. + + Save that, a little way away, + I'd watch you for a little while, + To see you speak, the way you speak, + And smile,--if you should smile. + + + + +BURIAL + + Mine is a body that should die at sea! + And have for a grave, instead of a grave + Six feet deep and the length of me, + All the water that is under the wave! + + And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, + Such as a living man might fear, + And eat me while I am firm and fresh,-- + Not wait till I've been dead for a year! + + + + +MARIPOSA + + Butterflies are white and blue + In this field we wander through. + Suffer me to take your hand. + Death comes in a day or two. + + All the things we ever knew + Will be ashes in that hour, + Mark the transient butterfly, + How he hangs upon the flower. + + Suffer me to take your hand. + Suffer me to cherish you + Till the dawn is in the sky. + Whether I be false or true, + Death comes in a day or two. + + + + +THE LITTLE HILL + + OH, here the air is sweet and still, + And soft's the grass to lie on; + And far away's the little hill + They took for Christ to die on. + + And there's a hill across the brook, + And down the brook's another; + But, oh, the little hill they took,-- + I think I am its mother! + + The moon that saw Gethsemane, + I watch it rise and set: + It has so many things to see, + They help it to forget. + + But little hills that sit at home + So many hundred years, + Remember Greece, remember Rome, + Remember Mary's tears. + + And far away in Palestine, + Sadder than any other, + Grieves still the hill that I call mine,-- + I think I am its mother! + + + + +DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + + Doubt no more that Oberon-- + Never doubt that Pan + Lived, and played a reed, and ran + After nymphs in a dark forest, + In the merry, credulous days,-- + Lived, and led a fairy band + Over the indulgent land! + Ah, for in this dourest, sorest + Age man's eye has looked upon, + Death to fauns and death to fays, + Still the dog-wood dares to raise-- + Healthy tree, with trunk and root-- + Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, + And the starlings and the jays-- + Birds that cannot even sing-- + Dare to come again in spring! + + + + +LAMENT + + Listen, children: + Your father is dead. + From his old coats + I'll make you little jackets; + I'll make you little trousers + From his old pants. + There'll be in his pockets + Things he used to put there, + Keys and pennies + Covered with tobacco; + Dan shall have the pennies + To save in his bank; + Anne shall have the keys + To make a pretty noise with. + Life must go on, + And the dead be forgotten; + Life must go on, + Though good men die; + Anne, eat your breakfast; + Dan, take your medicine; + Life must go on; + I forget just why. + + + + +EXILED + + Searching my heart for its true sorrow, + This is the thing I find to be: + That I am weary of words and people, + Sick of the city, wanting the sea; + + Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness + Of the strong wind and shattered spray; + Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound + Of the big surf that breaks all day. + + Always before about my dooryard, + Marking the reach of the winter sea, + Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, + Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; + + Always I climbed the wave at morning, + Shook the sand from my shoes at night, + That now am caught beneath great buildings, + Stricken with noise, confused with light. + + If I could hear the green piles groaning + Under the windy wooden piers, + See once again the bobbing barrels, + And the black sticks that fence the weirs, + + If I could see the weedy mussels + Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, + Hear once again the hungry crying + Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, + + Feel once again the shanty straining + Under the turning of the tide, + Fear once again the rising freshet, + Dread the bell in the fog outside,-- + + I should be happy,--that was happy + All day long on the coast of Maine! + I have a need to hold and handle + Shells and anchors and ships again! + + I should be happy, that am happy + Never at all since I came here. + I am too long away from water. + I have a need of water near. + + + + +THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + + When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, + And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind + Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned + Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, + Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, + Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,-- + Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes + My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, + And will be born again,--but ah, to see + Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! + Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me? + + + + +ODE TO SILENCE + + Aye, but she? + Your other sister and my other soul + Grave Silence, lovelier + Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? + Clio, not you, + Not you, Calliope, + Nor all your wanton line, + Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me + For Silence once departed, + For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, + Whom evermore I follow wistfully, + Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; + Thalia, not you, + Not you, Melpomene, + Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, + I seek in this great hall, + But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. + I seek her from afar, + I come from temples where her altars are, + From groves that bear her name, + Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, + And cymbals struck on high and strident faces + Obstreperous in her praise + They neither love nor know, + A goddess of gone days, + Departed long ago, + Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes + Of her old sanctuary, + A deity obscure and legendary, + Of whom there now remains, + For sages to decipher and priests to garble, + Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, + Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, + And the inarticulate snow, + Leaving at last of her least signs and traces + None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. + "She will love well," I said, + "If love be of that heart inhabiter, + The flowers of the dead; + The red anemone that with no sound + Moves in the wind, and from another wound + That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, + That blossoms underground, + And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. + And will not Silence know + In the black shade of what obsidian steep + Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? + (Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home, + Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, + Reluctant even as she, + Undone Persephone, + And even as she set out again to grow + In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam). + She will love well," I said, + "The flowers of the dead; + Where dark Persephone the winter round, + Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, + Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, + With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, + Stares on the stagnant stream + That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, + There, there will she be found, + She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound." + + "I long for Silence as they long for breath + Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; + What thing can be + So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death + What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, + Upon whose icy breast, + Unquestioned, uncaressed, + One time I lay, + And whom always I lack, + Even to this day, + Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, + If only she therewith be given me back?" + I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, + Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, + And in among the bloodless everywhere + I sought her, but the air, + Breathed many times and spent, + Was fretful with a whispering discontent, + And questioning me, importuning me to tell + Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, + Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. + I paused at every grievous door, + And harked a moment, holding up my hand,--and for a space + A hush was on them, while they watched my face; + And then they fell a-whispering as before; + So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. + I sought her, too, + Among the upper gods, although I knew + She was not like to be where feasting is, + Nor near to Heaven's lord, + Being a thing abhorred + And shunned of him, although a child of his, + (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, + Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). + Fearing to pass unvisited some place + And later learn, too late, how all the while, + With her still face, + She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, + I sought her even to the sagging board whereat + The stout immortals sat; + But such a laughter shook the mighty hall + No one could hear me say: + Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? + And no one knew at all + How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away. + + There is a garden lying in a lull + Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, + I know not where, but which a dream diurnal + Paints on my lids a moment till the hull + Be lifted from the kernel + And Slumber fed to me. + Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, + Though it would seem a ruined place and after + Your lichenous heart, being full + Of broken columns, caryatides + Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, + And urns funereal altered into dust + Minuter than the ashes of the dead, + And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust, + Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed + Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. + + There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria + Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, + And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; + There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; + But never an echo of your daughters' laughter + Is there, nor any sign of you at all + Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! + + Only her shadow once upon a stone + I saw,--and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. + + I tell you you have done her body an ill, + You chatterers, you noisy crew! + She is not anywhere! + I sought her in deep Hell; + And through the world as well; + I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; + Above nor under ground + Is Silence to be found, + That was the very warp and woof of you, + Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! + Oh, say if on this hill + Somewhere your sister's body lies in death, + So I may follow there, and make a wreath + Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast + Shall lie till age has withered them! + + (Ah, sweetly from the rest + I see + Turn and consider me + Compassionate Euterpe!) + "There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, + Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, + Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith, + "Whereon but to believe is horror! + Whereon to meditate engendereth + Even in deathless spirits such as I + A tumult in the breath, + A chilling of the inexhaustible blood + Even in my veins that never will be dry, + And in the austere, divine monotony + That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. + + This is her province whom you lack and seek; + And seek her not elsewhere. + Hell is a thoroughfare + For pilgrims,--Herakles, + And he that loved Euridice too well, + Have walked therein; and many more than these; + And witnessed the desire and the despair + Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; + You, too, have entered Hell, + And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak + None has returned;--for thither fury brings + Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. + Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there." + + Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! + Be long upon this height + I shall not climb again! + I know the way you mean,--the little night, + And the long empty day,--never to see + Again the angry light, + Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! + Ah, but she, + Your other sister and my other soul, + She shall again be mine; + And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, + A chilly thin green wine, + Not bitter to the taste, + Not sweet, + Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,-- + To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth-- + But savoring faintly of the acid earth, + And trod by pensive feet + From perfect clusters ripened without haste + Out of the urgent heat + In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. + + Lift up your lyres! Sing on! + But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. + + + + +MEMORIAL TO D. C. + [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] + + + Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, + Where now no more the music is, + With hands that wrote you little notes + I write you little elegies! + + + + +EPITAPH + + Heap not on this mound + Roses that she loved so well; + Why bewilder her with roses, + That she cannot see or smell? + She is happy where she lies + With the dust upon her eyes. + + + + +PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE + + Be to her, Persephone, + All the things I might not be; + Take her head upon your knee. + She that was so proud and wild, + Flippant, arrogant and free, + She that had no need of me, + Is a little lonely child + Lost in Hell,--Persephone, + Take her head upon your knee; + Say to her, "My dear, my dear, + It is not so dreadful here." + + + + +CHORUS + + Give away her gowns, + Give away her shoes; + She has no more use + For her fragrant gowns; + Take them all down, + Blue, green, blue, + Lilac, pink, blue, + From their padded hangers; + She will dance no more + In her narrow shoes; + Sweep her narrow shoes + From the closet floor. + + + + +ELEGY + + Let them bury your big eyes + In the secret earth securely, + Your thin fingers, and your fair, + Soft, indefinite-colored hair,-- + All of these in some way, surely, + From the secret earth shall rise; + Not for these I sit and stare, + Broken and bereft completely; + Your young flesh that sat so neatly + On your little bones will sweetly + Blossom in the air. + + But your voice,--never the rushing + Of a river underground, + Not the rising of the wind + In the trees before the rain, + Not the woodcock's watery call, + Not the note the white-throat utters, + Not the feet of children pushing + Yellow leaves along the gutters + In the blue and bitter fall, + Shall content my musing mind + For the beauty of that sound + That in no new way at all + Ever will be heard again. + + Sweetly through the sappy stalk + Of the vigorous weed, + Holding all it held before, + Cherished by the faithful sun, + On and on eternally + Shall your altered fluid run, + Bud and bloom and go to seed; + But your singing days are done; + But the music of your talk + Never shall the chemistry + Of the secret earth restore. + All your lovely words are spoken. + Once the ivory box is broken, + Beats the golden bird no more. + + + + +DIRGE + + Boys and girls that held her dear, + Do your weeping now; + All you loved of her lies here. + + Brought to earth the arrogant brow, + And the withering tongue + Chastened; do your weeping now. + + Sing whatever songs are sung, + Wind whatever wreath, + For a playmate perished young, + + For a spirit spent in death. + Boys and girls that held her dear, + All you loved of her lies here. + + + + +SONNETS + + + I + + We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; + Well, such you are,--but well enough we know + How thick about us root, how rankly grow + Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, + That flourish through neglect, and soon must send + Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow + Our steady senses; how such matters go + We are aware, and how such matters end. + Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; + With lovers such as we forevermore + Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere + Receives the Table's ruin through her door, + Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, + Lets fall the colored book upon the floor. + + + II + + Into the golden vessel of great song + Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast + Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; + Not we,--articulate, so, but with the tongue + Of all the world: the churning blood, the long + Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed + Sharply together upon the escaping guest, + The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. + Longing alone is singer to the lute; + Let still on nettles in the open sigh + The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute + As any man, and love be far and high, + That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit + Found on the ground by every passer-by. + + + III + + Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter + We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove, + Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after + The launching of the colored moths of Love. + Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone + We bound about our irreligious brows, + And fettered him with garlands of our own, + And spread a banquet in his frugal house. + Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear + Though we should break our bodies in his flame, + And pour our blood upon his altar, here + Henceforward is a grove without a name, + A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan, + Whence flee forever a woman and a man. + + + IV + + Only until this cigarette is ended, + A little moment at the end of all, + While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, + And in the firelight to a lance extended, + Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, + The broken shadow dances on the wall, + I will permit my memory to recall + The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. + And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done. + Yours is a face of which I can forget + The color and the features, every one, + The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; + But in your day this moment is the sun + Upon a hill, after the sun has set. + + + V + + Once more into my arid days like dew, + Like wind from an oasis, or the sound + Of cold sweet water bubbling underground, + A treacherous messenger, the thought of you + Comes to destroy me; once more I renew + Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found + Long since to be but just one other mound + Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew. + And once again, and wiser in no wise, + I chase your colored phantom on the air, + And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise + And stumble pitifully on to where, + Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, + Once more I clasp,--and there is nothing there. + + + VI + + No rose that in a garden ever grew, + In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine, + Though buried under centuries of fine + Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew + Forever, and forever lost from view, + But must again in fragrance rich as wine + The grey aisles of the air incarnadine + When the old summers surge into a new. + Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart," + 'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear, + 'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece; + And thus as well my love must lose some part + Of what it is, had Helen been less fair, + Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece. + + + VII + + When I too long have looked upon your face, + Wherein for me a brightness unobscured + Save by the mists of brightness has its place, + And terrible beauty not to be endured, + I turn away reluctant from your light, + And stand irresolute, a mind undone, + A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight + From having looked too long upon the sun. + Then is my daily life a narrow room + In which a little while, uncertainly, + Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, + Among familiar things grown strange to me + Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, + Till I become accustomed to the dark. + + + VIII + + And you as well must die, beloved dust, + And all your beauty stand you in no stead; + This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, + This body of flame and steel, before the gust + Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, + Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead + Than the first leaf that fell,--this wonder fled. + Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. + Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. + In spite of all my love, you will arise + Upon that day and wander down the air + Obscurely as the unattended flower, + It mattering not how beautiful you were, + Or how beloved above all else that dies. + + + IX + + Let you not say of me when I am old, + In pretty worship of my withered hands + Forgetting who I am, and how the sands + Of such a life as mine run red and gold + Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, + Here walketh passionless age!"--for there expands + A curious superstition in these lands, + And by its leave some weightless tales are told. + + In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; + I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; + Impious no less in ruin than in strength, + When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, + Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site + The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." + + + X + + Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this: + How in the years to come unscrupulous Time, + More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss, + And make you old, and leave me in my prime? + How you and I, who scale together yet + A little while the sweet, immortal height + No pilgrim may remember or forget, + As sure as the world turns, some granite night + Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame + Gone out forever on the mutual stone; + And call to mind that on the day you came + I was a child, and you a hero grown?-- + And the night pass, and the strange morning break + Upon our anguish for each other's sake! + + + XI + + As to some lovely temple, tenantless + Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, + Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass + Grown up between the stones, yet from excess + Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness, + The worshiper returns, and those who pass + Marvel him crying on a name that was,-- + So is it now with me in my distress. + Your body was a temple to Delight; + Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled, + Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; + Here might I hope to find you day or night, + And here I come to look for you, my love, + Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead. + + + XII + + Cherish you then the hope I shall forget + At length, my lord, Pieria?--put away + For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay + These mortal bones against my body set, + For all the puny fever and frail sweat + Of human love,--renounce for these, I say, + The Singing Mountain's memory, and betray + The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet? + Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake, + Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side + So many nights, a lover and a bride, + But stern in my soul's chastity, have lain, + To walk the world forever for my sake, + And in each chamber find me gone again! + + + + +WILD SWANS + + I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. + And what did I see I had not seen before? + Only a question less or a question more; + Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying. + Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, + House without air, I leave you and lock your door. + Wild swans, come over the town, come over + The town again, trailing your legs and crying! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second April, by Edna St. Vincent Millay + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1247 *** diff --git a/1247-h/1247-h.htm b/1247-h/1247-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4095cba --- /dev/null +++ b/1247-h/1247-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2087 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Second April, by Edna St. Vincent Millay + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1247 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SECOND APRIL + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edna St. Vincent Millay + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + TO<br /> <br /> MY BELOVED FRIEND<br /> CAROLINE B. DOW + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SECOND APRIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> SPRING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CITY TREES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> JOURNEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> EEL-GRASS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ELEGY BEFORE DEATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE BEAN-STALK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> WEEDS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> PASSER MORTUUS EST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> PASTORAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> ASSAULT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> TRAVEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> LOW-TIDE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> SONG OF A SECOND APRIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> ROSEMARY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE POET AND HIS BOOK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> ALMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> INLAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> WRAITH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> EBB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> ELAINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> BURIAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> MARIPOSA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE LITTLE HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> LAMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> EXILED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE DEATH OF AUTUMN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> ODE TO SILENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> CHORUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> ELEGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> DIRGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> SONNETS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> WILD SWANS </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + SECOND APRIL + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SPRING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To what purpose, April, do you return again? + Beauty is not enough. + You can no longer quiet me with the redness + Of little leaves opening stickily. + I know what I know. + The sun is hot on my neck as I observe + The spikes of the crocus. + The smell of the earth is good. + It is apparent that there is no death. + But what does that signify? + Not only under ground are the brains of men + Eaten by maggots, + Life in itself + Is nothing, + An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. + It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, + April + Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CITY TREES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The trees along this city street, + Save for the traffic and the trains, + Would make a sound as thin and sweet + As trees in country lanes. + + And people standing in their shade + Out of a shower, undoubtedly + Would hear such music as is made + Upon a country tree. + + Oh, little leaves that are so dumb + Against the shrieking city air, + I watch you when the wind has come,— + I know what sound is there. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God had called us, and we came; + Our loved Earth to ashes left; + Heaven was a neighbor's house, + Open to us, bereft. + + Gay the lights of Heaven showed, + And 'twas God who walked ahead; + Yet I wept along the road, + Wanting my own house instead. + + Wept unseen, unheeded cried, + "All you things my eyes have kissed, + Fare you well! We meet no more, + Lovely, lovely tattered mist! + + Weary wings that rise and fall + All day long above the fire!"— + Red with heat was every wall, + Rough with heat was every wire— + + "Fare you well, you little winds + That the flying embers chase! + Fare you well, you shuddering day, + With your hands before your face! + + And, ah, blackened by strange blight, + Or to a false sun unfurled, + Now forevermore goodbye, + All the gardens in the world! + + On the windless hills of Heaven, + That I have no wish to see, + White, eternal lilies stand, + By a lake of ebony. + + But the Earth forevermore + Is a place where nothing grows,— + Dawn will come, and no bud break; + Evening, and no blossom close. + + Spring will come, and wander slow + Over an indifferent land, + Stand beside an empty creek, + Hold a dead seed in her hand." + + God had called us, and we came, + But the blessed road I trod + Was a bitter road to me, + And at heart I questioned God. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the heart would most desire, + Held Earth naught save souls of sinners + Worth the saving from a fire? + + Withered grass,—the wasted growing! + Aimless ache of laden boughs!" + Little things God had forgotten + Called me, from my burning house. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the eye could ask to see, + All the things I ever knew + Are this blaze in back of me." + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the ear could think to lack, + All the things I ever knew + Are this roaring at my back." + + It was God who walked ahead, + Like a shepherd to the fold; + In his footsteps fared the weak, + And the weary and the old, + + Glad enough of gladness over, + Ready for the peace to be,— + But a thing God had forgotten + Was the growing bones of me. + + And I drew a bit apart, + And I lagged a bit behind, + And I thought on Peace Eternal, + Lest He look into my mind: + + And I gazed upon the sky, + And I thought of Heavenly Rest,— + And I slipped away like water + Through the fingers of the blest! + + All their eyes were fixed on Glory, + Not a glance brushed over me; + "Alleluia! Alleluia!" + Up the road,—and I was free. + + And my heart rose like a freshet, + And it swept me on before, + Giddy as a whirling stick, + Till I felt the earth once more. + + All the earth was charred and black, + Fire had swept from pole to pole; + And the bottom of the sea + Was as brittle as a bowl; + + And the timbered mountain-top + Was as naked as a skull,— + Nothing left, nothing left, + Of the Earth so beautiful! + + "Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?" + "You are all I have," I said; + "What is left to take my mind up, + Living always, and you dead?" + + "Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something! + Make a sign that I can see! + For a keepsake! To keep always! + Quick!—before God misses me!" + + And I listened for a voice;— + But my heart was all I heard; + Not a screech-owl, not a loon, + Not a tree-toad said a word. + + And I waited for a sign;— + Coals and cinders, nothing more; + And a little cloud of smoke + Floating on a valley floor. + + And I peered into the smoke + Till it rotted, like a fog:— + There, encompassed round by fire, + Stood a blue-flag in a bog! + + Little flames came wading out, + Straining, straining towards its stem, + But it was so blue and tall + That it scorned to think of them! + + Red and thirsty were their tongues, + As the tongues of wolves must be, + But it was so blue and tall— + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! + + All my heart became a tear, + All my soul became a tower, + Never loved I anything + As I loved that tall blue flower! + + It was all the little boats + That had ever sailed the sea, + It was all the little books + That had gone to school with me; + + On its roots like iron claws + Rearing up so blue and tall,— + It was all the gallant Earth + With its back against a wall! + + In a breath, ere I had breathed,— + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!— + I was kneeling at its side, + And it leaned its head on me! + + Crumbling stones and sliding sand + Is the road to Heaven now; + Icy at my straining knees + Drags the awful under-tow; + + Soon but stepping-stones of dust + Will the road to Heaven be,— + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + "There—there, my blue-flag flower; + Hush—hush—go to sleep; + That is only God you hear, + Counting up His folded sheep! + + Lullabye—lullabye— + That is only God that calls, + Missing me, seeking me, + Ere the road to nothing falls! + + He will set His mighty feet + Firmly on the sliding sand; + Like a little frightened bird + I will creep into His hand; + + I will tell Him all my grief, + I will tell Him all my sin; + He will give me half His robe + For a cloak to wrap you in. + + Lullabye—lullabye—" + Rocks the burnt-out planet free!— + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + Ah, the voice of love at last! + Lo, at last the face of light! + And the whole of His white robe + For a cloak against the night! + + And upon my heart asleep + All the things I ever knew!— + "Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, + For a flower so tall and blue?" + + All's well and all's well! + Gay the lights of Heaven show! + In some moist and Heavenly place + We will set it out to grow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOURNEY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass + And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind + Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired + Of passing pleasant places! All my life, + Following Care along the dusty road, + Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; + Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand + Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long + Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; + And now I fain would lie in this long grass + And close my eyes. + Yet onward! + Cat birds call + Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk + Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, + Drawing the twilight close about their throats. + Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines + Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees + Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; + Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern + And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread + Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, + Look back and beckon ere they disappear. + Only my heart, only my heart responds. + Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side + All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot + And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— + But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, + And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, + The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, + Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road + A gateless garden, and an open path: + My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EEL-GRASS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No matter what I say, + All that I really love + Is the rain that flattens on the bay, + And the eel-grass in the cove; + The jingle-shells that lie and bleach + At the tide-line, and the trace + Of higher tides along the beach: + Nothing in this place. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELEGY BEFORE DEATH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There will be rose and rhododendron + When you are dead and under ground; + Still will be heard from white syringas + Heavy with bees, a sunny sound; + + Still will the tamaracks be raining + After the rain has ceased, and still + Will there be robins in the stubble, + Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. + + Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; + Nothing will know that you are gone, + Saving alone some sullen plough-land + None but yourself sets foot upon; + + Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed + Nothing will know that you are dead,— + These, and perhaps a useless wagon + Standing beside some tumbled shed. + + Oh, there will pass with your great passing + Little of beauty not your own,— + Only the light from common water, + Only the grace from simple stone! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEAN-STALK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ho, Giant! This is I! + I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! + La,—but it's lovely, up so high! + + This is how I came,—I put + Here my knee, there my foot, + Up and up, from shoot to shoot— + And the blessed bean-stalk thinning + Like the mischief all the time, + Till it took me rocking, spinning, + In a dizzy, sunny circle, + Making angles with the root, + Far and out above the cackle + Of the city I was born in, + Till the little dirty city + In the light so sheer and sunny + Shone as dazzling bright and pretty + As the money that you find + In a dream of finding money— + What a wind! What a morning!— + + Till the tiny, shiny city, + When I shot a glance below, + Shaken with a giddy laughter, + Sick and blissfully afraid, + Was a dew-drop on a blade, + And a pair of moments after + Was the whirling guess I made,— + And the wind was like a whip + + Cracking past my icy ears, + And my hair stood out behind, + And my eyes were full of tears, + Wide-open and cold, + More tears than they could hold, + The wind was blowing so, + And my teeth were in a row, + Dry and grinning, + And I felt my foot slip, + And I scratched the wind and whined, + And I clutched the stalk and jabbered, + With my eyes shut blind,— + What a wind! What a wind! + + Your broad sky, Giant, + Is the shelf of a cupboard; + I make bean-stalks, I'm + A builder, like yourself, + But bean-stalks is my trade, + I couldn't make a shelf, + Don't know how they're made, + Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant— + La, what a climb! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WEEDS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + White with daisies and red with sorrel + And empty, empty under the sky!— + Life is a quest and love a quarrel— + Here is a place for me to lie. + + Daisies spring from damned seeds, + And this red fire that here I see + Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, + Cursed by farmers thriftily. + + But here, unhated for an hour, + The sorrel runs in ragged flame, + The daisy stands, a bastard flower, + Like flowers that bear an honest name. + + And here a while, where no wind brings + The baying of a pack athirst, + May sleep the sleep of blessed things, + The blood too bright, the brow accurst. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PASSER MORTUUS EST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Death devours all lovely things; + Lesbia with her sparrow + Shares the darkness,—presently + Every bed is narrow. + + Unremembered as old rain + Dries the sheer libation, + And the little petulant hand + Is an annotation. + + After all, my erstwhile dear, + My no longer cherished, + Need we say it was not love, + Now that love is perished? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PASTORAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If it were only still!— + With far away the shrill + Crying of a cock; + Or the shaken bell + From a cow's throat + Moving through the bushes; + Or the soft shock + Of wizened apples falling + From an old tree + In a forgotten orchard + Upon the hilly rock! + + Oh, grey hill, + Where the grazing herd + Licks the purple blossom, + Crops the spiky weed! + Oh, stony pasture, + Where the tall mullein + Stands up so sturdy + On its little seed! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASSAULT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + I had forgotten how the frogs must sound + After a year of silence, else I think + I should not so have ventured forth alone + At dusk upon this unfrequented road. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk + Between me and the crying of the frogs? + Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, + That am a timid woman, on her way + From one house to another! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRAVEL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The railroad track is miles away, + And the day is loud with voices speaking, + Yet there isn't a train goes by all day + But I hear its whistle shrieking. + + All night there isn't a train goes by, + Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming + But I see its cinders red on the sky, + And hear its engine steaming. + + My heart is warm with the friends I make, + And better friends I'll not be knowing, + Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, + No matter where it's going. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOW-TIDE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + These wet rocks where the tide has been, + Barnacled white and weeded brown + And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, + These wet rocks where the tide went down + Will show again when the tide is high + Faint and perilous, far from shore, + No place to dream, but a place to die,— + The bottom of the sea once more. + There was a child that wandered through + A giant's empty house all day,— + House full of wonderful things and new, + But no fit place for a child to play. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF A SECOND APRIL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + April this year, not otherwise + Than April of a year ago, + Is full of whispers, full of sighs, + Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; + Hepaticas that pleased you so + Are here again, and butterflies. + + There rings a hammering all day, + And shingles lie about the doors; + In orchards near and far away + The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; + The men are merry at their chores, + And children earnest at their play. + + The larger streams run still and deep, + Noisy and swift the small brooks run + Among the mullein stalks the sheep + Go up the hillside in the sun, + Pensively,—only you are gone, + You that alone I cared to keep. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROSEMARY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For the sake of some things + That be now no more + I will strew rushes + On my chamber-floor, + I will plant bergamot + At my kitchen-door. + + For the sake of dim things + That were once so plain + I will set a barrel + Out to catch the rain, + I will hang an iron pot + On an iron crane. + + Many things be dead and gone + That were brave and gay; + For the sake of these things + I will learn to say, + "An it please you, gentle sirs," + "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POET AND HIS BOOK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down, you mongrel, Death! + Back into your kennel! + I have stolen breath + In a stalk of fennel! + You shall scratch and you shall whine + Many a night, and you shall worry + Many a bone, before you bury + One sweet bone of mine! + + When shall I be dead? + When my flesh is withered, + And above my head + Yellow pollen gathered + All the empty afternoon? + When sweet lovers pause and wonder + Who am I that lie thereunder, + Hidden from the moon? + + This my personal death?— + That lungs be failing + To inhale the breath + Others are exhaling? + This my subtle spirit's end?— + Ah, when the thawed winter splashes + Over these chance dust and ashes, + Weep not me, my friend! + + Me, by no means dead + In that hour, but surely + When this book, unread, + Rots to earth obscurely, + And no more to any breast, + Close against the clamorous swelling + Of the thing there is no telling, + Are these pages pressed! + + When this book is mould, + And a book of many + Waiting to be sold + For a casual penny, + In a little open case, + In a street unclean and cluttered, + Where a heavy mud is spattered + From the passing drays, + + Stranger, pause and look; + From the dust of ages + Lift this little book, + Turn the tattered pages, + Read me, do not let me die! + Search the fading letters, finding + Steadfast in the broken binding + All that once was I! + + When these veins are weeds, + When these hollowed sockets + Watch the rooty seeds + Bursting down like rockets, + And surmise the spring again, + Or, remote in that black cupboard, + Watch the pink worms writhing upward + At the smell of rain, + + Boys and girls that lie + Whispering in the hedges, + Do not let me die, + Mix me with your pledges; + Boys and girls that slowly walk + In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, + Staring past the pink wild laurel, + Mix me with your talk, + + Do not let me die! + Farmers at your raking, + When the sun is high, + While the hay is making, + When, along the stubble strewn, + Withering on their stalks uneaten, + Strawberries turn dark and sweeten + In the lapse of noon; + + Shepherds on the hills, + In the pastures, drowsing + To the tinkling bells + Of the brown sheep browsing; + Sailors crying through the storm; + Scholars at your study; hunters + Lost amid the whirling winter's + Whiteness uniform; + + Men that long for sleep; + Men that wake and revel;— + If an old song leap + To your senses' level + At such moments, may it be + Sometimes, though a moment only, + Some forgotten, quaint and homely + Vehicle of me! + + Women at your toil, + Women at your leisure + Till the kettle boil, + Snatch of me your pleasure, + Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; + Women quiet with your weeping + Lest you wake a workman sleeping, + Mix me with your grief! + + Boys and girls that steal + From the shocking laughter + Of the old, to kneel + By a dripping rafter + Under the discolored eaves, + Out of trunks with hingeless covers + Lifting tales of saints and lovers, + Travelers, goblins, thieves, + + Suns that shine by night, + Mountains made from valleys,— + Bear me to the light, + Flat upon your bellies + By the webby window lie, + Where the little flies are crawling,— + Read me, margin me with scrawling, + Do not let me die! + + Sexton, ply your trade! + In a shower of gravel + Stamp upon your spade! + Many a rose shall ravel, + Many a metal wreath shall rust + In the rain, and I go singing + Through the lots where you are flinging + Yellow clay on dust! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALMS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My heart is what it was before, + A house where people come and go; + But it is winter with your love, + The sashes are beset with snow. + + I light the lamp and lay the cloth, + I blow the coals to blaze again; + But it is winter with your love, + The frost is thick upon the pane. + + I know a winter when it comes: + The leaves are listless on the boughs; + I watched your love a little while, + And brought my plants into the house. + + I water them and turn them south, + I snap the dead brown from the stem; + But it is winter with your love,— + I only tend and water them. + + There was a time I stood and watched + The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; + I loved the beggar that I fed, + I cared for what he had to say, + + I stood and watched him out of sight; + Today I reach around the door + And set a bowl upon the step; + My heart is what it was before, + + But it is winter with your love; + I scatter crumbs upon the sill, + And close the window,—and the birds + May take or leave them, as they will. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INLAND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + People that build their houses inland, + People that buy a plot of ground + Shaped like a house, and build a house there, + Far from the sea-board, far from the sound + + Of water sucking the hollow ledges, + Tons of water striking the shore,— + What do they long for, as I long for + One salt smell of the sea once more? + + People the waves have not awakened, + Spanking the boats at the harbor's head, + What do they long for, as I long for,— + Starting up in my inland bed, + + Beating the narrow walls, and finding + Neither a window nor a door, + Screaming to God for death by drowning,— + One salt taste of the sea once more? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Minstrel, what have you to do + With this man that, after you, + Sharing not your happy fate, + Sat as England's Laureate? + Vainly, in these iron days, + Strives the poet in your praise, + Minstrel, by whose singing side + Beauty walked, until you died. + + Still, though none should hark again, + Drones the blue-fly in the pane, + Thickly crusts the blackest moss, + Blows the rose its musk across, + Floats the boat that is forgot + None the less to Camelot. + + Many a bard's untimely death + Lends unto his verses breath; + Here's a song was never sung: + Growing old is dying young. + Minstrel, what is this to you: + That a man you never knew, + When your grave was far and green, + Sat and gossipped with a queen? + + Thalia knows how rare a thing + Is it, to grow old and sing; + When a brown and tepid tide + Closes in on every side. + Who shall say if Shelley's gold + Had withstood it to grow old? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WRAITH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, + That you haunt my door?" + —Surely it is not I she's wanting; + Someone living here before— + "Nobody's in the house but me: + You may come in if you like and see." + + Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,— + Have you seen her, any of you?— + Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, + And the garden showing through? + + Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly, + Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, + Asking something, asking it over, + If you get a sound from her.— + + Ever see her, any of you?— + Strangest thing I've ever known,— + Every night since I moved in, + And I came to be alone. + + "Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! + You may not come in! + This is I that you hear rocking; + Nobody's with me, nor has been!" + + Curious, how she tried the window,— + Odd, the way she tries the door,— + Wonder just what sort of people + Could have had this house before . . . +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EBB + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know what my heart is like + Since your love died: + It is like a hollow ledge + Holding a little pool + Left there by the tide, + A little tepid pool, + Drying inward from the edge. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELAINE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OH, come again to Astolat! + I will not ask you to be kind. + And you may go when you will go, + And I will stay behind. + + I will not say how dear you are, + Or ask you if you hold me dear, + Or trouble you with things for you + The way I did last year. + + So still the orchard, Lancelot, + So very still the lake shall be, + You could not guess—though you should guess— + What is become of me. + + So wide shall be the garden-walk, + The garden-seat so very wide, + You needs must think—if you should think— + The lily maid had died. + + Save that, a little way away, + I'd watch you for a little while, + To see you speak, the way you speak, + And smile,—if you should smile. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BURIAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mine is a body that should die at sea! + And have for a grave, instead of a grave + Six feet deep and the length of me, + All the water that is under the wave! + + And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, + Such as a living man might fear, + And eat me while I am firm and fresh,— + Not wait till I've been dead for a year! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARIPOSA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Butterflies are white and blue + In this field we wander through. + Suffer me to take your hand. + Death comes in a day or two. + + All the things we ever knew + Will be ashes in that hour, + Mark the transient butterfly, + How he hangs upon the flower. + + Suffer me to take your hand. + Suffer me to cherish you + Till the dawn is in the sky. + Whether I be false or true, + Death comes in a day or two. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LITTLE HILL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OH, here the air is sweet and still, + And soft's the grass to lie on; + And far away's the little hill + They took for Christ to die on. + + And there's a hill across the brook, + And down the brook's another; + But, oh, the little hill they took,— + I think I am its mother! + + The moon that saw Gethsemane, + I watch it rise and set: + It has so many things to see, + They help it to forget. + + But little hills that sit at home + So many hundred years, + Remember Greece, remember Rome, + Remember Mary's tears. + + And far away in Palestine, + Sadder than any other, + Grieves still the hill that I call mine,— + I think I am its mother! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Doubt no more that Oberon— + Never doubt that Pan + Lived, and played a reed, and ran + After nymphs in a dark forest, + In the merry, credulous days,— + Lived, and led a fairy band + Over the indulgent land! + Ah, for in this dourest, sorest + Age man's eye has looked upon, + Death to fauns and death to fays, + Still the dog-wood dares to raise— + Healthy tree, with trunk and root— + Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, + And the starlings and the jays— + Birds that cannot even sing— + Dare to come again in spring! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LAMENT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Listen, children: + Your father is dead. + From his old coats + I'll make you little jackets; + I'll make you little trousers + From his old pants. + There'll be in his pockets + Things he used to put there, + Keys and pennies + Covered with tobacco; + Dan shall have the pennies + To save in his bank; + Anne shall have the keys + To make a pretty noise with. + Life must go on, + And the dead be forgotten; + Life must go on, + Though good men die; + Anne, eat your breakfast; + Dan, take your medicine; + Life must go on; + I forget just why. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EXILED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Searching my heart for its true sorrow, + This is the thing I find to be: + That I am weary of words and people, + Sick of the city, wanting the sea; + + Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness + Of the strong wind and shattered spray; + Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound + Of the big surf that breaks all day. + + Always before about my dooryard, + Marking the reach of the winter sea, + Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, + Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; + + Always I climbed the wave at morning, + Shook the sand from my shoes at night, + That now am caught beneath great buildings, + Stricken with noise, confused with light. + + If I could hear the green piles groaning + Under the windy wooden piers, + See once again the bobbing barrels, + And the black sticks that fence the weirs, + + If I could see the weedy mussels + Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, + Hear once again the hungry crying + Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, + + Feel once again the shanty straining + Under the turning of the tide, + Fear once again the rising freshet, + Dread the bell in the fog outside,— + + I should be happy,—that was happy + All day long on the coast of Maine! + I have a need to hold and handle + Shells and anchors and ships again! + + I should be happy, that am happy + Never at all since I came here. + I am too long away from water. + I have a need of water near. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, + And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind + Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned + Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, + Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, + Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,— + Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes + My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, + And will be born again,—but ah, to see + Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! + Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO SILENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aye, but she? + Your other sister and my other soul + Grave Silence, lovelier + Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? + Clio, not you, + Not you, Calliope, + Nor all your wanton line, + Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me + For Silence once departed, + For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, + Whom evermore I follow wistfully, + Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; + Thalia, not you, + Not you, Melpomene, + Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, + I seek in this great hall, + But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. + I seek her from afar, + I come from temples where her altars are, + From groves that bear her name, + Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, + And cymbals struck on high and strident faces + Obstreperous in her praise + They neither love nor know, + A goddess of gone days, + Departed long ago, + Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes + Of her old sanctuary, + A deity obscure and legendary, + Of whom there now remains, + For sages to decipher and priests to garble, + Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, + Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, + And the inarticulate snow, + Leaving at last of her least signs and traces + None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. + "She will love well," I said, + "If love be of that heart inhabiter, + The flowers of the dead; + The red anemone that with no sound + Moves in the wind, and from another wound + That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, + That blossoms underground, + And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. + And will not Silence know + In the black shade of what obsidian steep + Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? + (Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home, + Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, + Reluctant even as she, + Undone Persephone, + And even as she set out again to grow + In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam). + She will love well," I said, + "The flowers of the dead; + Where dark Persephone the winter round, + Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, + Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, + With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, + Stares on the stagnant stream + That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, + There, there will she be found, + She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound." + + "I long for Silence as they long for breath + Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; + What thing can be + So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death + What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, + Upon whose icy breast, + Unquestioned, uncaressed, + One time I lay, + And whom always I lack, + Even to this day, + Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, + If only she therewith be given me back?" + I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, + Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, + And in among the bloodless everywhere + I sought her, but the air, + Breathed many times and spent, + Was fretful with a whispering discontent, + And questioning me, importuning me to tell + Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, + Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. + I paused at every grievous door, + And harked a moment, holding up my hand,—and for a space + A hush was on them, while they watched my face; + And then they fell a-whispering as before; + So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. + I sought her, too, + Among the upper gods, although I knew + She was not like to be where feasting is, + Nor near to Heaven's lord, + Being a thing abhorred + And shunned of him, although a child of his, + (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, + Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). + Fearing to pass unvisited some place + And later learn, too late, how all the while, + With her still face, + She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, + I sought her even to the sagging board whereat + The stout immortals sat; + But such a laughter shook the mighty hall + No one could hear me say: + Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? + And no one knew at all + How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away. + + There is a garden lying in a lull + Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, + I know not where, but which a dream diurnal + Paints on my lids a moment till the hull + Be lifted from the kernel + And Slumber fed to me. + Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, + Though it would seem a ruined place and after + Your lichenous heart, being full + Of broken columns, caryatides + Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, + And urns funereal altered into dust + Minuter than the ashes of the dead, + And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust, + Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed + Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. + + There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria + Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, + And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; + There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; + But never an echo of your daughters' laughter + Is there, nor any sign of you at all + Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! + + Only her shadow once upon a stone + I saw,—and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. + + I tell you you have done her body an ill, + You chatterers, you noisy crew! + She is not anywhere! + I sought her in deep Hell; + And through the world as well; + I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; + Above nor under ground + Is Silence to be found, + That was the very warp and woof of you, + Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! + Oh, say if on this hill + Somewhere your sister's body lies in death, + So I may follow there, and make a wreath + Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast + Shall lie till age has withered them! + + (Ah, sweetly from the rest + I see + Turn and consider me + Compassionate Euterpe!) + "There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, + Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, + Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith, + "Whereon but to believe is horror! + Whereon to meditate engendereth + Even in deathless spirits such as I + A tumult in the breath, + A chilling of the inexhaustible blood + Even in my veins that never will be dry, + And in the austere, divine monotony + That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. + + This is her province whom you lack and seek; + And seek her not elsewhere. + Hell is a thoroughfare + For pilgrims,—Herakles, + And he that loved Euridice too well, + Have walked therein; and many more than these; + And witnessed the desire and the despair + Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; + You, too, have entered Hell, + And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak + None has returned;—for thither fury brings + Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. + Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there." + + Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! + Be long upon this height + I shall not climb again! + I know the way you mean,—the little night, + And the long empty day,—never to see + Again the angry light, + Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! + Ah, but she, + Your other sister and my other soul, + She shall again be mine; + And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, + A chilly thin green wine, + Not bitter to the taste, + Not sweet, + Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,— + To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth— + But savoring faintly of the acid earth, + And trod by pensive feet + From perfect clusters ripened without haste + Out of the urgent heat + In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. + + Lift up your lyres! Sing on! + But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +MEMORIAL TO D. C. + [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, + Where now no more the music is, + With hands that wrote you little notes + I write you little elegies! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Heap not on this mound + Roses that she loved so well; + Why bewilder her with roses, + That she cannot see or smell? + She is happy where she lies + With the dust upon her eyes. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be to her, Persephone, + All the things I might not be; + Take her head upon your knee. + She that was so proud and wild, + Flippant, arrogant and free, + She that had no need of me, + Is a little lonely child + Lost in Hell,—Persephone, + Take her head upon your knee; + Say to her, "My dear, my dear, + It is not so dreadful here." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHORUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Give away her gowns, + Give away her shoes; + She has no more use + For her fragrant gowns; + Take them all down, + Blue, green, blue, + Lilac, pink, blue, + From their padded hangers; + She will dance no more + In her narrow shoes; + Sweep her narrow shoes + From the closet floor. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELEGY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let them bury your big eyes + In the secret earth securely, + Your thin fingers, and your fair, + Soft, indefinite-colored hair,— + All of these in some way, surely, + From the secret earth shall rise; + Not for these I sit and stare, + Broken and bereft completely; + Your young flesh that sat so neatly + On your little bones will sweetly + Blossom in the air. + + But your voice,—never the rushing + Of a river underground, + Not the rising of the wind + In the trees before the rain, + Not the woodcock's watery call, + Not the note the white-throat utters, + Not the feet of children pushing + Yellow leaves along the gutters + In the blue and bitter fall, + Shall content my musing mind + For the beauty of that sound + That in no new way at all + Ever will be heard again. + + Sweetly through the sappy stalk + Of the vigorous weed, + Holding all it held before, + Cherished by the faithful sun, + On and on eternally + Shall your altered fluid run, + Bud and bloom and go to seed; + But your singing days are done; + But the music of your talk + Never shall the chemistry + Of the secret earth restore. + All your lovely words are spoken. + Once the ivory box is broken, + Beats the golden bird no more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRGE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Boys and girls that held her dear, + Do your weeping now; + All you loved of her lies here. + + Brought to earth the arrogant brow, + And the withering tongue + Chastened; do your weeping now. + + Sing whatever songs are sung, + Wind whatever wreath, + For a playmate perished young, + + For a spirit spent in death. + Boys and girls that held her dear, + All you loved of her lies here. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONNETS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; + Well, such you are,—but well enough we know + How thick about us root, how rankly grow + Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, + That flourish through neglect, and soon must send + Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow + Our steady senses; how such matters go + We are aware, and how such matters end. + Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; + With lovers such as we forevermore + Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere + Receives the Table's ruin through her door, + Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, + Lets fall the colored book upon the floor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Into the golden vessel of great song + Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast + Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; + Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue + Of all the world: the churning blood, the long + Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed + Sharply together upon the escaping guest, + The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. + Longing alone is singer to the lute; + Let still on nettles in the open sigh + The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute + As any man, and love be far and high, + That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit + Found on the ground by every passer-by. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter + We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove, + Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after + The launching of the colored moths of Love. + Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone + We bound about our irreligious brows, + And fettered him with garlands of our own, + And spread a banquet in his frugal house. + Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear + Though we should break our bodies in his flame, + And pour our blood upon his altar, here + Henceforward is a grove without a name, + A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan, + Whence flee forever a woman and a man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Only until this cigarette is ended, + A little moment at the end of all, + While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, + And in the firelight to a lance extended, + Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, + The broken shadow dances on the wall, + I will permit my memory to recall + The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. + And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. + Yours is a face of which I can forget + The color and the features, every one, + The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; + But in your day this moment is the sun + Upon a hill, after the sun has set. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + Once more into my arid days like dew, + Like wind from an oasis, or the sound + Of cold sweet water bubbling underground, + A treacherous messenger, the thought of you + Comes to destroy me; once more I renew + Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found + Long since to be but just one other mound + Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew. + And once again, and wiser in no wise, + I chase your colored phantom on the air, + And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise + And stumble pitifully on to where, + Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, + Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + No rose that in a garden ever grew, + In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine, + Though buried under centuries of fine + Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew + Forever, and forever lost from view, + But must again in fragrance rich as wine + The grey aisles of the air incarnadine + When the old summers surge into a new. + Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart," + 'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear, + 'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece; + And thus as well my love must lose some part + Of what it is, had Helen been less fair, + Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + When I too long have looked upon your face, + Wherein for me a brightness unobscured + Save by the mists of brightness has its place, + And terrible beauty not to be endured, + I turn away reluctant from your light, + And stand irresolute, a mind undone, + A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight + From having looked too long upon the sun. + Then is my daily life a narrow room + In which a little while, uncertainly, + Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, + Among familiar things grown strange to me + Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, + Till I become accustomed to the dark. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + And you as well must die, beloved dust, + And all your beauty stand you in no stead; + This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, + This body of flame and steel, before the gust + Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, + Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead + Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled. + Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. + Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. + In spite of all my love, you will arise + Upon that day and wander down the air + Obscurely as the unattended flower, + It mattering not how beautiful you were, + Or how beloved above all else that dies. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Let you not say of me when I am old, + In pretty worship of my withered hands + Forgetting who I am, and how the sands + Of such a life as mine run red and gold + Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, + Here walketh passionless age!"—for there expands + A curious superstition in these lands, + And by its leave some weightless tales are told. + + In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; + I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; + Impious no less in ruin than in strength, + When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, + Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site + The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this: + How in the years to come unscrupulous Time, + More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss, + And make you old, and leave me in my prime? + How you and I, who scale together yet + A little while the sweet, immortal height + No pilgrim may remember or forget, + As sure as the world turns, some granite night + Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame + Gone out forever on the mutual stone; + And call to mind that on the day you came + I was a child, and you a hero grown?— + And the night pass, and the strange morning break + Upon our anguish for each other's sake! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + As to some lovely temple, tenantless + Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, + Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass + Grown up between the stones, yet from excess + Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness, + The worshiper returns, and those who pass + Marvel him crying on a name that was,— + So is it now with me in my distress. + Your body was a temple to Delight; + Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled, + Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; + Here might I hope to find you day or night, + And here I come to look for you, my love, + Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + Cherish you then the hope I shall forget + At length, my lord, Pieria?—put away + For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay + These mortal bones against my body set, + For all the puny fever and frail sweat + Of human love,—renounce for these, I say, + The Singing Mountain's memory, and betray + The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet? + Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake, + Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side + So many nights, a lover and a bride, + But stern in my soul's chastity, have lain, + To walk the world forever for my sake, + And in each chamber find me gone again! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WILD SWANS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. + And what did I see I had not seen before? + Only a question less or a question more; + Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying. + Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, + House without air, I leave you and lock your door. + Wild swans, come over the town, come over + The town again, trailing your legs and crying! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1247 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Second April + +Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay + +Release Date: August 13, 2008 [EBook #1247] +Last Updated: February 6, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND APRIL *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SECOND APRIL + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edna St. Vincent Millay + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + TO<br /> <br /> MY BELOVED FRIEND<br /> CAROLINE B. DOW + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SECOND APRIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> SPRING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> CITY TREES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> JOURNEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> EEL-GRASS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ELEGY BEFORE DEATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE BEAN-STALK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> WEEDS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> PASSER MORTUUS EST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> PASTORAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> ASSAULT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> TRAVEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> LOW-TIDE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> SONG OF A SECOND APRIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> ROSEMARY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE POET AND HIS BOOK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> ALMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> INLAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> WRAITH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> EBB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> ELAINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> BURIAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> MARIPOSA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE LITTLE HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> LAMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> EXILED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE DEATH OF AUTUMN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> ODE TO SILENCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> EPITAPH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> CHORUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> ELEGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> DIRGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> SONNETS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> WILD SWANS </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + SECOND APRIL + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SPRING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To what purpose, April, do you return again? + Beauty is not enough. + You can no longer quiet me with the redness + Of little leaves opening stickily. + I know what I know. + The sun is hot on my neck as I observe + The spikes of the crocus. + The smell of the earth is good. + It is apparent that there is no death. + But what does that signify? + Not only under ground are the brains of men + Eaten by maggots, + Life in itself + Is nothing, + An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. + It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, + April + Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CITY TREES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The trees along this city street, + Save for the traffic and the trains, + Would make a sound as thin and sweet + As trees in country lanes. + + And people standing in their shade + Out of a shower, undoubtedly + Would hear such music as is made + Upon a country tree. + + Oh, little leaves that are so dumb + Against the shrieking city air, + I watch you when the wind has come,— + I know what sound is there. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God had called us, and we came; + Our loved Earth to ashes left; + Heaven was a neighbor's house, + Open to us, bereft. + + Gay the lights of Heaven showed, + And 'twas God who walked ahead; + Yet I wept along the road, + Wanting my own house instead. + + Wept unseen, unheeded cried, + "All you things my eyes have kissed, + Fare you well! We meet no more, + Lovely, lovely tattered mist! + + Weary wings that rise and fall + All day long above the fire!"— + Red with heat was every wall, + Rough with heat was every wire— + + "Fare you well, you little winds + That the flying embers chase! + Fare you well, you shuddering day, + With your hands before your face! + + And, ah, blackened by strange blight, + Or to a false sun unfurled, + Now forevermore goodbye, + All the gardens in the world! + + On the windless hills of Heaven, + That I have no wish to see, + White, eternal lilies stand, + By a lake of ebony. + + But the Earth forevermore + Is a place where nothing grows,— + Dawn will come, and no bud break; + Evening, and no blossom close. + + Spring will come, and wander slow + Over an indifferent land, + Stand beside an empty creek, + Hold a dead seed in her hand." + + God had called us, and we came, + But the blessed road I trod + Was a bitter road to me, + And at heart I questioned God. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the heart would most desire, + Held Earth naught save souls of sinners + Worth the saving from a fire? + + Withered grass,—the wasted growing! + Aimless ache of laden boughs!" + Little things God had forgotten + Called me, from my burning house. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the eye could ask to see, + All the things I ever knew + Are this blaze in back of me." + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the ear could think to lack, + All the things I ever knew + Are this roaring at my back." + + It was God who walked ahead, + Like a shepherd to the fold; + In his footsteps fared the weak, + And the weary and the old, + + Glad enough of gladness over, + Ready for the peace to be,— + But a thing God had forgotten + Was the growing bones of me. + + And I drew a bit apart, + And I lagged a bit behind, + And I thought on Peace Eternal, + Lest He look into my mind: + + And I gazed upon the sky, + And I thought of Heavenly Rest,— + And I slipped away like water + Through the fingers of the blest! + + All their eyes were fixed on Glory, + Not a glance brushed over me; + "Alleluia! Alleluia!" + Up the road,—and I was free. + + And my heart rose like a freshet, + And it swept me on before, + Giddy as a whirling stick, + Till I felt the earth once more. + + All the earth was charred and black, + Fire had swept from pole to pole; + And the bottom of the sea + Was as brittle as a bowl; + + And the timbered mountain-top + Was as naked as a skull,— + Nothing left, nothing left, + Of the Earth so beautiful! + + "Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?" + "You are all I have," I said; + "What is left to take my mind up, + Living always, and you dead?" + + "Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something! + Make a sign that I can see! + For a keepsake! To keep always! + Quick!—before God misses me!" + + And I listened for a voice;— + But my heart was all I heard; + Not a screech-owl, not a loon, + Not a tree-toad said a word. + + And I waited for a sign;— + Coals and cinders, nothing more; + And a little cloud of smoke + Floating on a valley floor. + + And I peered into the smoke + Till it rotted, like a fog:— + There, encompassed round by fire, + Stood a blue-flag in a bog! + + Little flames came wading out, + Straining, straining towards its stem, + But it was so blue and tall + That it scorned to think of them! + + Red and thirsty were their tongues, + As the tongues of wolves must be, + But it was so blue and tall— + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! + + All my heart became a tear, + All my soul became a tower, + Never loved I anything + As I loved that tall blue flower! + + It was all the little boats + That had ever sailed the sea, + It was all the little books + That had gone to school with me; + + On its roots like iron claws + Rearing up so blue and tall,— + It was all the gallant Earth + With its back against a wall! + + In a breath, ere I had breathed,— + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!— + I was kneeling at its side, + And it leaned its head on me! + + Crumbling stones and sliding sand + Is the road to Heaven now; + Icy at my straining knees + Drags the awful under-tow; + + Soon but stepping-stones of dust + Will the road to Heaven be,— + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + "There—there, my blue-flag flower; + Hush—hush—go to sleep; + That is only God you hear, + Counting up His folded sheep! + + Lullabye—lullabye— + That is only God that calls, + Missing me, seeking me, + Ere the road to nothing falls! + + He will set His mighty feet + Firmly on the sliding sand; + Like a little frightened bird + I will creep into His hand; + + I will tell Him all my grief, + I will tell Him all my sin; + He will give me half His robe + For a cloak to wrap you in. + + Lullabye—lullabye—" + Rocks the burnt-out planet free!— + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + Ah, the voice of love at last! + Lo, at last the face of light! + And the whole of His white robe + For a cloak against the night! + + And upon my heart asleep + All the things I ever knew!— + "Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, + For a flower so tall and blue?" + + All's well and all's well! + Gay the lights of Heaven show! + In some moist and Heavenly place + We will set it out to grow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOURNEY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass + And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind + Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired + Of passing pleasant places! All my life, + Following Care along the dusty road, + Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; + Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand + Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long + Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; + And now I fain would lie in this long grass + And close my eyes. + Yet onward! + Cat birds call + Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk + Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, + Drawing the twilight close about their throats. + Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines + Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees + Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; + Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern + And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread + Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, + Look back and beckon ere they disappear. + Only my heart, only my heart responds. + Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side + All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot + And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— + But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, + And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, + The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, + Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road + A gateless garden, and an open path: + My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EEL-GRASS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No matter what I say, + All that I really love + Is the rain that flattens on the bay, + And the eel-grass in the cove; + The jingle-shells that lie and bleach + At the tide-line, and the trace + Of higher tides along the beach: + Nothing in this place. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELEGY BEFORE DEATH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There will be rose and rhododendron + When you are dead and under ground; + Still will be heard from white syringas + Heavy with bees, a sunny sound; + + Still will the tamaracks be raining + After the rain has ceased, and still + Will there be robins in the stubble, + Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. + + Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; + Nothing will know that you are gone, + Saving alone some sullen plough-land + None but yourself sets foot upon; + + Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed + Nothing will know that you are dead,— + These, and perhaps a useless wagon + Standing beside some tumbled shed. + + Oh, there will pass with your great passing + Little of beauty not your own,— + Only the light from common water, + Only the grace from simple stone! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEAN-STALK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ho, Giant! This is I! + I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! + La,—but it's lovely, up so high! + + This is how I came,—I put + Here my knee, there my foot, + Up and up, from shoot to shoot— + And the blessed bean-stalk thinning + Like the mischief all the time, + Till it took me rocking, spinning, + In a dizzy, sunny circle, + Making angles with the root, + Far and out above the cackle + Of the city I was born in, + Till the little dirty city + In the light so sheer and sunny + Shone as dazzling bright and pretty + As the money that you find + In a dream of finding money— + What a wind! What a morning!— + + Till the tiny, shiny city, + When I shot a glance below, + Shaken with a giddy laughter, + Sick and blissfully afraid, + Was a dew-drop on a blade, + And a pair of moments after + Was the whirling guess I made,— + And the wind was like a whip + + Cracking past my icy ears, + And my hair stood out behind, + And my eyes were full of tears, + Wide-open and cold, + More tears than they could hold, + The wind was blowing so, + And my teeth were in a row, + Dry and grinning, + And I felt my foot slip, + And I scratched the wind and whined, + And I clutched the stalk and jabbered, + With my eyes shut blind,— + What a wind! What a wind! + + Your broad sky, Giant, + Is the shelf of a cupboard; + I make bean-stalks, I'm + A builder, like yourself, + But bean-stalks is my trade, + I couldn't make a shelf, + Don't know how they're made, + Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant— + La, what a climb! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WEEDS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + White with daisies and red with sorrel + And empty, empty under the sky!— + Life is a quest and love a quarrel— + Here is a place for me to lie. + + Daisies spring from damned seeds, + And this red fire that here I see + Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, + Cursed by farmers thriftily. + + But here, unhated for an hour, + The sorrel runs in ragged flame, + The daisy stands, a bastard flower, + Like flowers that bear an honest name. + + And here a while, where no wind brings + The baying of a pack athirst, + May sleep the sleep of blessed things, + The blood too bright, the brow accurst. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PASSER MORTUUS EST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Death devours all lovely things; + Lesbia with her sparrow + Shares the darkness,—presently + Every bed is narrow. + + Unremembered as old rain + Dries the sheer libation, + And the little petulant hand + Is an annotation. + + After all, my erstwhile dear, + My no longer cherished, + Need we say it was not love, + Now that love is perished? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PASTORAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If it were only still!— + With far away the shrill + Crying of a cock; + Or the shaken bell + From a cow's throat + Moving through the bushes; + Or the soft shock + Of wizened apples falling + From an old tree + In a forgotten orchard + Upon the hilly rock! + + Oh, grey hill, + Where the grazing herd + Licks the purple blossom, + Crops the spiky weed! + Oh, stony pasture, + Where the tall mullein + Stands up so sturdy + On its little seed! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASSAULT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + I had forgotten how the frogs must sound + After a year of silence, else I think + I should not so have ventured forth alone + At dusk upon this unfrequented road. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk + Between me and the crying of the frogs? + Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, + That am a timid woman, on her way + From one house to another! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRAVEL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The railroad track is miles away, + And the day is loud with voices speaking, + Yet there isn't a train goes by all day + But I hear its whistle shrieking. + + All night there isn't a train goes by, + Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming + But I see its cinders red on the sky, + And hear its engine steaming. + + My heart is warm with the friends I make, + And better friends I'll not be knowing, + Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, + No matter where it's going. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOW-TIDE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + These wet rocks where the tide has been, + Barnacled white and weeded brown + And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, + These wet rocks where the tide went down + Will show again when the tide is high + Faint and perilous, far from shore, + No place to dream, but a place to die,— + The bottom of the sea once more. + There was a child that wandered through + A giant's empty house all day,— + House full of wonderful things and new, + But no fit place for a child to play. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF A SECOND APRIL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + April this year, not otherwise + Than April of a year ago, + Is full of whispers, full of sighs, + Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; + Hepaticas that pleased you so + Are here again, and butterflies. + + There rings a hammering all day, + And shingles lie about the doors; + In orchards near and far away + The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; + The men are merry at their chores, + And children earnest at their play. + + The larger streams run still and deep, + Noisy and swift the small brooks run + Among the mullein stalks the sheep + Go up the hillside in the sun, + Pensively,—only you are gone, + You that alone I cared to keep. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROSEMARY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For the sake of some things + That be now no more + I will strew rushes + On my chamber-floor, + I will plant bergamot + At my kitchen-door. + + For the sake of dim things + That were once so plain + I will set a barrel + Out to catch the rain, + I will hang an iron pot + On an iron crane. + + Many things be dead and gone + That were brave and gay; + For the sake of these things + I will learn to say, + "An it please you, gentle sirs," + "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POET AND HIS BOOK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down, you mongrel, Death! + Back into your kennel! + I have stolen breath + In a stalk of fennel! + You shall scratch and you shall whine + Many a night, and you shall worry + Many a bone, before you bury + One sweet bone of mine! + + When shall I be dead? + When my flesh is withered, + And above my head + Yellow pollen gathered + All the empty afternoon? + When sweet lovers pause and wonder + Who am I that lie thereunder, + Hidden from the moon? + + This my personal death?— + That lungs be failing + To inhale the breath + Others are exhaling? + This my subtle spirit's end?— + Ah, when the thawed winter splashes + Over these chance dust and ashes, + Weep not me, my friend! + + Me, by no means dead + In that hour, but surely + When this book, unread, + Rots to earth obscurely, + And no more to any breast, + Close against the clamorous swelling + Of the thing there is no telling, + Are these pages pressed! + + When this book is mould, + And a book of many + Waiting to be sold + For a casual penny, + In a little open case, + In a street unclean and cluttered, + Where a heavy mud is spattered + From the passing drays, + + Stranger, pause and look; + From the dust of ages + Lift this little book, + Turn the tattered pages, + Read me, do not let me die! + Search the fading letters, finding + Steadfast in the broken binding + All that once was I! + + When these veins are weeds, + When these hollowed sockets + Watch the rooty seeds + Bursting down like rockets, + And surmise the spring again, + Or, remote in that black cupboard, + Watch the pink worms writhing upward + At the smell of rain, + + Boys and girls that lie + Whispering in the hedges, + Do not let me die, + Mix me with your pledges; + Boys and girls that slowly walk + In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, + Staring past the pink wild laurel, + Mix me with your talk, + + Do not let me die! + Farmers at your raking, + When the sun is high, + While the hay is making, + When, along the stubble strewn, + Withering on their stalks uneaten, + Strawberries turn dark and sweeten + In the lapse of noon; + + Shepherds on the hills, + In the pastures, drowsing + To the tinkling bells + Of the brown sheep browsing; + Sailors crying through the storm; + Scholars at your study; hunters + Lost amid the whirling winter's + Whiteness uniform; + + Men that long for sleep; + Men that wake and revel;— + If an old song leap + To your senses' level + At such moments, may it be + Sometimes, though a moment only, + Some forgotten, quaint and homely + Vehicle of me! + + Women at your toil, + Women at your leisure + Till the kettle boil, + Snatch of me your pleasure, + Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; + Women quiet with your weeping + Lest you wake a workman sleeping, + Mix me with your grief! + + Boys and girls that steal + From the shocking laughter + Of the old, to kneel + By a dripping rafter + Under the discolored eaves, + Out of trunks with hingeless covers + Lifting tales of saints and lovers, + Travelers, goblins, thieves, + + Suns that shine by night, + Mountains made from valleys,— + Bear me to the light, + Flat upon your bellies + By the webby window lie, + Where the little flies are crawling,— + Read me, margin me with scrawling, + Do not let me die! + + Sexton, ply your trade! + In a shower of gravel + Stamp upon your spade! + Many a rose shall ravel, + Many a metal wreath shall rust + In the rain, and I go singing + Through the lots where you are flinging + Yellow clay on dust! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALMS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My heart is what it was before, + A house where people come and go; + But it is winter with your love, + The sashes are beset with snow. + + I light the lamp and lay the cloth, + I blow the coals to blaze again; + But it is winter with your love, + The frost is thick upon the pane. + + I know a winter when it comes: + The leaves are listless on the boughs; + I watched your love a little while, + And brought my plants into the house. + + I water them and turn them south, + I snap the dead brown from the stem; + But it is winter with your love,— + I only tend and water them. + + There was a time I stood and watched + The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; + I loved the beggar that I fed, + I cared for what he had to say, + + I stood and watched him out of sight; + Today I reach around the door + And set a bowl upon the step; + My heart is what it was before, + + But it is winter with your love; + I scatter crumbs upon the sill, + And close the window,—and the birds + May take or leave them, as they will. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INLAND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + People that build their houses inland, + People that buy a plot of ground + Shaped like a house, and build a house there, + Far from the sea-board, far from the sound + + Of water sucking the hollow ledges, + Tons of water striking the shore,— + What do they long for, as I long for + One salt smell of the sea once more? + + People the waves have not awakened, + Spanking the boats at the harbor's head, + What do they long for, as I long for,— + Starting up in my inland bed, + + Beating the narrow walls, and finding + Neither a window nor a door, + Screaming to God for death by drowning,— + One salt taste of the sea once more? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Minstrel, what have you to do + With this man that, after you, + Sharing not your happy fate, + Sat as England's Laureate? + Vainly, in these iron days, + Strives the poet in your praise, + Minstrel, by whose singing side + Beauty walked, until you died. + + Still, though none should hark again, + Drones the blue-fly in the pane, + Thickly crusts the blackest moss, + Blows the rose its musk across, + Floats the boat that is forgot + None the less to Camelot. + + Many a bard's untimely death + Lends unto his verses breath; + Here's a song was never sung: + Growing old is dying young. + Minstrel, what is this to you: + That a man you never knew, + When your grave was far and green, + Sat and gossipped with a queen? + + Thalia knows how rare a thing + Is it, to grow old and sing; + When a brown and tepid tide + Closes in on every side. + Who shall say if Shelley's gold + Had withstood it to grow old? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WRAITH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, + That you haunt my door?" + —Surely it is not I she's wanting; + Someone living here before— + "Nobody's in the house but me: + You may come in if you like and see." + + Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,— + Have you seen her, any of you?— + Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, + And the garden showing through? + + Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly, + Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, + Asking something, asking it over, + If you get a sound from her.— + + Ever see her, any of you?— + Strangest thing I've ever known,— + Every night since I moved in, + And I came to be alone. + + "Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! + You may not come in! + This is I that you hear rocking; + Nobody's with me, nor has been!" + + Curious, how she tried the window,— + Odd, the way she tries the door,— + Wonder just what sort of people + Could have had this house before . . . +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EBB + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know what my heart is like + Since your love died: + It is like a hollow ledge + Holding a little pool + Left there by the tide, + A little tepid pool, + Drying inward from the edge. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELAINE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OH, come again to Astolat! + I will not ask you to be kind. + And you may go when you will go, + And I will stay behind. + + I will not say how dear you are, + Or ask you if you hold me dear, + Or trouble you with things for you + The way I did last year. + + So still the orchard, Lancelot, + So very still the lake shall be, + You could not guess—though you should guess— + What is become of me. + + So wide shall be the garden-walk, + The garden-seat so very wide, + You needs must think—if you should think— + The lily maid had died. + + Save that, a little way away, + I'd watch you for a little while, + To see you speak, the way you speak, + And smile,—if you should smile. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BURIAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mine is a body that should die at sea! + And have for a grave, instead of a grave + Six feet deep and the length of me, + All the water that is under the wave! + + And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, + Such as a living man might fear, + And eat me while I am firm and fresh,— + Not wait till I've been dead for a year! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARIPOSA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Butterflies are white and blue + In this field we wander through. + Suffer me to take your hand. + Death comes in a day or two. + + All the things we ever knew + Will be ashes in that hour, + Mark the transient butterfly, + How he hangs upon the flower. + + Suffer me to take your hand. + Suffer me to cherish you + Till the dawn is in the sky. + Whether I be false or true, + Death comes in a day or two. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LITTLE HILL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OH, here the air is sweet and still, + And soft's the grass to lie on; + And far away's the little hill + They took for Christ to die on. + + And there's a hill across the brook, + And down the brook's another; + But, oh, the little hill they took,— + I think I am its mother! + + The moon that saw Gethsemane, + I watch it rise and set: + It has so many things to see, + They help it to forget. + + But little hills that sit at home + So many hundred years, + Remember Greece, remember Rome, + Remember Mary's tears. + + And far away in Palestine, + Sadder than any other, + Grieves still the hill that I call mine,— + I think I am its mother! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Doubt no more that Oberon— + Never doubt that Pan + Lived, and played a reed, and ran + After nymphs in a dark forest, + In the merry, credulous days,— + Lived, and led a fairy band + Over the indulgent land! + Ah, for in this dourest, sorest + Age man's eye has looked upon, + Death to fauns and death to fays, + Still the dog-wood dares to raise— + Healthy tree, with trunk and root— + Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, + And the starlings and the jays— + Birds that cannot even sing— + Dare to come again in spring! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LAMENT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Listen, children: + Your father is dead. + From his old coats + I'll make you little jackets; + I'll make you little trousers + From his old pants. + There'll be in his pockets + Things he used to put there, + Keys and pennies + Covered with tobacco; + Dan shall have the pennies + To save in his bank; + Anne shall have the keys + To make a pretty noise with. + Life must go on, + And the dead be forgotten; + Life must go on, + Though good men die; + Anne, eat your breakfast; + Dan, take your medicine; + Life must go on; + I forget just why. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EXILED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Searching my heart for its true sorrow, + This is the thing I find to be: + That I am weary of words and people, + Sick of the city, wanting the sea; + + Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness + Of the strong wind and shattered spray; + Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound + Of the big surf that breaks all day. + + Always before about my dooryard, + Marking the reach of the winter sea, + Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, + Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; + + Always I climbed the wave at morning, + Shook the sand from my shoes at night, + That now am caught beneath great buildings, + Stricken with noise, confused with light. + + If I could hear the green piles groaning + Under the windy wooden piers, + See once again the bobbing barrels, + And the black sticks that fence the weirs, + + If I could see the weedy mussels + Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, + Hear once again the hungry crying + Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, + + Feel once again the shanty straining + Under the turning of the tide, + Fear once again the rising freshet, + Dread the bell in the fog outside,— + + I should be happy,—that was happy + All day long on the coast of Maine! + I have a need to hold and handle + Shells and anchors and ships again! + + I should be happy, that am happy + Never at all since I came here. + I am too long away from water. + I have a need of water near. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, + And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind + Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned + Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, + Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, + Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,— + Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes + My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, + And will be born again,—but ah, to see + Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! + Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE TO SILENCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aye, but she? + Your other sister and my other soul + Grave Silence, lovelier + Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? + Clio, not you, + Not you, Calliope, + Nor all your wanton line, + Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me + For Silence once departed, + For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, + Whom evermore I follow wistfully, + Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; + Thalia, not you, + Not you, Melpomene, + Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, + I seek in this great hall, + But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. + I seek her from afar, + I come from temples where her altars are, + From groves that bear her name, + Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, + And cymbals struck on high and strident faces + Obstreperous in her praise + They neither love nor know, + A goddess of gone days, + Departed long ago, + Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes + Of her old sanctuary, + A deity obscure and legendary, + Of whom there now remains, + For sages to decipher and priests to garble, + Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, + Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, + And the inarticulate snow, + Leaving at last of her least signs and traces + None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. + "She will love well," I said, + "If love be of that heart inhabiter, + The flowers of the dead; + The red anemone that with no sound + Moves in the wind, and from another wound + That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, + That blossoms underground, + And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. + And will not Silence know + In the black shade of what obsidian steep + Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? + (Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home, + Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, + Reluctant even as she, + Undone Persephone, + And even as she set out again to grow + In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam). + She will love well," I said, + "The flowers of the dead; + Where dark Persephone the winter round, + Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, + Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, + With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, + Stares on the stagnant stream + That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, + There, there will she be found, + She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound." + + "I long for Silence as they long for breath + Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; + What thing can be + So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death + What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, + Upon whose icy breast, + Unquestioned, uncaressed, + One time I lay, + And whom always I lack, + Even to this day, + Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, + If only she therewith be given me back?" + I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, + Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, + And in among the bloodless everywhere + I sought her, but the air, + Breathed many times and spent, + Was fretful with a whispering discontent, + And questioning me, importuning me to tell + Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, + Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. + I paused at every grievous door, + And harked a moment, holding up my hand,—and for a space + A hush was on them, while they watched my face; + And then they fell a-whispering as before; + So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. + I sought her, too, + Among the upper gods, although I knew + She was not like to be where feasting is, + Nor near to Heaven's lord, + Being a thing abhorred + And shunned of him, although a child of his, + (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, + Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). + Fearing to pass unvisited some place + And later learn, too late, how all the while, + With her still face, + She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, + I sought her even to the sagging board whereat + The stout immortals sat; + But such a laughter shook the mighty hall + No one could hear me say: + Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? + And no one knew at all + How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away. + + There is a garden lying in a lull + Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, + I know not where, but which a dream diurnal + Paints on my lids a moment till the hull + Be lifted from the kernel + And Slumber fed to me. + Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, + Though it would seem a ruined place and after + Your lichenous heart, being full + Of broken columns, caryatides + Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, + And urns funereal altered into dust + Minuter than the ashes of the dead, + And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust, + Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed + Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. + + There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria + Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, + And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; + There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; + But never an echo of your daughters' laughter + Is there, nor any sign of you at all + Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! + + Only her shadow once upon a stone + I saw,—and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. + + I tell you you have done her body an ill, + You chatterers, you noisy crew! + She is not anywhere! + I sought her in deep Hell; + And through the world as well; + I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; + Above nor under ground + Is Silence to be found, + That was the very warp and woof of you, + Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! + Oh, say if on this hill + Somewhere your sister's body lies in death, + So I may follow there, and make a wreath + Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast + Shall lie till age has withered them! + + (Ah, sweetly from the rest + I see + Turn and consider me + Compassionate Euterpe!) + "There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, + Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, + Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith, + "Whereon but to believe is horror! + Whereon to meditate engendereth + Even in deathless spirits such as I + A tumult in the breath, + A chilling of the inexhaustible blood + Even in my veins that never will be dry, + And in the austere, divine monotony + That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. + + This is her province whom you lack and seek; + And seek her not elsewhere. + Hell is a thoroughfare + For pilgrims,—Herakles, + And he that loved Euridice too well, + Have walked therein; and many more than these; + And witnessed the desire and the despair + Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; + You, too, have entered Hell, + And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak + None has returned;—for thither fury brings + Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. + Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there." + + Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! + Be long upon this height + I shall not climb again! + I know the way you mean,—the little night, + And the long empty day,—never to see + Again the angry light, + Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! + Ah, but she, + Your other sister and my other soul, + She shall again be mine; + And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, + A chilly thin green wine, + Not bitter to the taste, + Not sweet, + Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,— + To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth— + But savoring faintly of the acid earth, + And trod by pensive feet + From perfect clusters ripened without haste + Out of the urgent heat + In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. + + Lift up your lyres! Sing on! + But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +MEMORIAL TO D. C. + [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, + Where now no more the music is, + With hands that wrote you little notes + I write you little elegies! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Heap not on this mound + Roses that she loved so well; + Why bewilder her with roses, + That she cannot see or smell? + She is happy where she lies + With the dust upon her eyes. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be to her, Persephone, + All the things I might not be; + Take her head upon your knee. + She that was so proud and wild, + Flippant, arrogant and free, + She that had no need of me, + Is a little lonely child + Lost in Hell,—Persephone, + Take her head upon your knee; + Say to her, "My dear, my dear, + It is not so dreadful here." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHORUS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Give away her gowns, + Give away her shoes; + She has no more use + For her fragrant gowns; + Take them all down, + Blue, green, blue, + Lilac, pink, blue, + From their padded hangers; + She will dance no more + In her narrow shoes; + Sweep her narrow shoes + From the closet floor. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELEGY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let them bury your big eyes + In the secret earth securely, + Your thin fingers, and your fair, + Soft, indefinite-colored hair,— + All of these in some way, surely, + From the secret earth shall rise; + Not for these I sit and stare, + Broken and bereft completely; + Your young flesh that sat so neatly + On your little bones will sweetly + Blossom in the air. + + But your voice,—never the rushing + Of a river underground, + Not the rising of the wind + In the trees before the rain, + Not the woodcock's watery call, + Not the note the white-throat utters, + Not the feet of children pushing + Yellow leaves along the gutters + In the blue and bitter fall, + Shall content my musing mind + For the beauty of that sound + That in no new way at all + Ever will be heard again. + + Sweetly through the sappy stalk + Of the vigorous weed, + Holding all it held before, + Cherished by the faithful sun, + On and on eternally + Shall your altered fluid run, + Bud and bloom and go to seed; + But your singing days are done; + But the music of your talk + Never shall the chemistry + Of the secret earth restore. + All your lovely words are spoken. + Once the ivory box is broken, + Beats the golden bird no more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRGE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Boys and girls that held her dear, + Do your weeping now; + All you loved of her lies here. + + Brought to earth the arrogant brow, + And the withering tongue + Chastened; do your weeping now. + + Sing whatever songs are sung, + Wind whatever wreath, + For a playmate perished young, + + For a spirit spent in death. + Boys and girls that held her dear, + All you loved of her lies here. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONNETS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; + Well, such you are,—but well enough we know + How thick about us root, how rankly grow + Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, + That flourish through neglect, and soon must send + Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow + Our steady senses; how such matters go + We are aware, and how such matters end. + Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; + With lovers such as we forevermore + Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere + Receives the Table's ruin through her door, + Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, + Lets fall the colored book upon the floor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Into the golden vessel of great song + Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast + Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; + Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue + Of all the world: the churning blood, the long + Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed + Sharply together upon the escaping guest, + The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. + Longing alone is singer to the lute; + Let still on nettles in the open sigh + The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute + As any man, and love be far and high, + That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit + Found on the ground by every passer-by. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter + We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove, + Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after + The launching of the colored moths of Love. + Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone + We bound about our irreligious brows, + And fettered him with garlands of our own, + And spread a banquet in his frugal house. + Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear + Though we should break our bodies in his flame, + And pour our blood upon his altar, here + Henceforward is a grove without a name, + A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan, + Whence flee forever a woman and a man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Only until this cigarette is ended, + A little moment at the end of all, + While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, + And in the firelight to a lance extended, + Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, + The broken shadow dances on the wall, + I will permit my memory to recall + The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. + And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. + Yours is a face of which I can forget + The color and the features, every one, + The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; + But in your day this moment is the sun + Upon a hill, after the sun has set. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + Once more into my arid days like dew, + Like wind from an oasis, or the sound + Of cold sweet water bubbling underground, + A treacherous messenger, the thought of you + Comes to destroy me; once more I renew + Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found + Long since to be but just one other mound + Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew. + And once again, and wiser in no wise, + I chase your colored phantom on the air, + And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise + And stumble pitifully on to where, + Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, + Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + No rose that in a garden ever grew, + In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine, + Though buried under centuries of fine + Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew + Forever, and forever lost from view, + But must again in fragrance rich as wine + The grey aisles of the air incarnadine + When the old summers surge into a new. + Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart," + 'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear, + 'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece; + And thus as well my love must lose some part + Of what it is, had Helen been less fair, + Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + When I too long have looked upon your face, + Wherein for me a brightness unobscured + Save by the mists of brightness has its place, + And terrible beauty not to be endured, + I turn away reluctant from your light, + And stand irresolute, a mind undone, + A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight + From having looked too long upon the sun. + Then is my daily life a narrow room + In which a little while, uncertainly, + Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, + Among familiar things grown strange to me + Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, + Till I become accustomed to the dark. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + And you as well must die, beloved dust, + And all your beauty stand you in no stead; + This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, + This body of flame and steel, before the gust + Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, + Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead + Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled. + Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. + Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. + In spite of all my love, you will arise + Upon that day and wander down the air + Obscurely as the unattended flower, + It mattering not how beautiful you were, + Or how beloved above all else that dies. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + Let you not say of me when I am old, + In pretty worship of my withered hands + Forgetting who I am, and how the sands + Of such a life as mine run red and gold + Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, + Here walketh passionless age!"—for there expands + A curious superstition in these lands, + And by its leave some weightless tales are told. + + In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; + I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; + Impious no less in ruin than in strength, + When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, + Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site + The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this: + How in the years to come unscrupulous Time, + More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss, + And make you old, and leave me in my prime? + How you and I, who scale together yet + A little while the sweet, immortal height + No pilgrim may remember or forget, + As sure as the world turns, some granite night + Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame + Gone out forever on the mutual stone; + And call to mind that on the day you came + I was a child, and you a hero grown?— + And the night pass, and the strange morning break + Upon our anguish for each other's sake! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + As to some lovely temple, tenantless + Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, + Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass + Grown up between the stones, yet from excess + Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness, + The worshiper returns, and those who pass + Marvel him crying on a name that was,— + So is it now with me in my distress. + Your body was a temple to Delight; + Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled, + Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; + Here might I hope to find you day or night, + And here I come to look for you, my love, + Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + Cherish you then the hope I shall forget + At length, my lord, Pieria?—put away + For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay + These mortal bones against my body set, + For all the puny fever and frail sweat + Of human love,—renounce for these, I say, + The Singing Mountain's memory, and betray + The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet? + Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake, + Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side + So many nights, a lover and a bride, + But stern in my soul's chastity, have lain, + To walk the world forever for my sake, + And in each chamber find me gone again! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WILD SWANS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. + And what did I see I had not seen before? + Only a question less or a question more; + Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying. + Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, + House without air, I leave you and lock your door. + Wild swans, come over the town, come over + The town again, trailing your legs and crying! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second April, by Edna St. Vincent Millay + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND APRIL *** + +***** This file should be named 1247-h.htm or 1247-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/4/1247/ + +Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Second April + +Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay + +Posting Date: August 13, 2008 [EBook #1247] +Release Date: March, 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND APRIL *** + + + + +Produced by Judy Boss + + + + + +SECOND APRIL + +By Edna St. Vincent Millay + + + + + TO + MY BELOVED FRIEND + CAROLINE B. DOW + + + +CONTENTS + + SPRING INLAND + CITY TREES TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG WRAITH + JOURNEY EBB + EEL-GRASS ELAINE + ELEGY BEFORE DEATH BURIAL + THE BEAN-STALK MARIPOSA + WEEDS THE LITTLE HILL + PASSER MORTUUS EST DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + PASTORAL LAMENT + ASSAULT EXILED + TRAVEL THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + LOW-TIDE ODE TO SILENCE + SONG OF A SECOND APRIL MEMORIAL TO D. C. + ROSEMARY UNNAMED SONNETS I-XII + THE POET AND HIS BOOK WILD SWANS + ALMS + + + + + +SECOND APRIL + + + + +SPRING + + To what purpose, April, do you return again? + Beauty is not enough. + You can no longer quiet me with the redness + Of little leaves opening stickily. + I know what I know. + The sun is hot on my neck as I observe + The spikes of the crocus. + The smell of the earth is good. + It is apparent that there is no death. + But what does that signify? + Not only under ground are the brains of men + Eaten by maggots, + Life in itself + Is nothing, + An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. + It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, + April + Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. + + + + +CITY TREES + + The trees along this city street, + Save for the traffic and the trains, + Would make a sound as thin and sweet + As trees in country lanes. + + And people standing in their shade + Out of a shower, undoubtedly + Would hear such music as is made + Upon a country tree. + + Oh, little leaves that are so dumb + Against the shrieking city air, + I watch you when the wind has come,-- + I know what sound is there. + + + + +THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG + + God had called us, and we came; + Our loved Earth to ashes left; + Heaven was a neighbor's house, + Open to us, bereft. + + Gay the lights of Heaven showed, + And 'twas God who walked ahead; + Yet I wept along the road, + Wanting my own house instead. + + Wept unseen, unheeded cried, + "All you things my eyes have kissed, + Fare you well! We meet no more, + Lovely, lovely tattered mist! + + Weary wings that rise and fall + All day long above the fire!"-- + Red with heat was every wall, + Rough with heat was every wire-- + + "Fare you well, you little winds + That the flying embers chase! + Fare you well, you shuddering day, + With your hands before your face! + + And, ah, blackened by strange blight, + Or to a false sun unfurled, + Now forevermore goodbye, + All the gardens in the world! + + On the windless hills of Heaven, + That I have no wish to see, + White, eternal lilies stand, + By a lake of ebony. + + But the Earth forevermore + Is a place where nothing grows,-- + Dawn will come, and no bud break; + Evening, and no blossom close. + + Spring will come, and wander slow + Over an indifferent land, + Stand beside an empty creek, + Hold a dead seed in her hand." + + God had called us, and we came, + But the blessed road I trod + Was a bitter road to me, + And at heart I questioned God. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the heart would most desire, + Held Earth naught save souls of sinners + Worth the saving from a fire? + + Withered grass,--the wasted growing! + Aimless ache of laden boughs!" + Little things God had forgotten + Called me, from my burning house. + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the eye could ask to see, + All the things I ever knew + Are this blaze in back of me." + + "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the ear could think to lack, + All the things I ever knew + Are this roaring at my back." + + It was God who walked ahead, + Like a shepherd to the fold; + In his footsteps fared the weak, + And the weary and the old, + + Glad enough of gladness over, + Ready for the peace to be,-- + But a thing God had forgotten + Was the growing bones of me. + + And I drew a bit apart, + And I lagged a bit behind, + And I thought on Peace Eternal, + Lest He look into my mind: + + And I gazed upon the sky, + And I thought of Heavenly Rest,-- + And I slipped away like water + Through the fingers of the blest! + + All their eyes were fixed on Glory, + Not a glance brushed over me; + "Alleluia! Alleluia!" + Up the road,--and I was free. + + And my heart rose like a freshet, + And it swept me on before, + Giddy as a whirling stick, + Till I felt the earth once more. + + All the earth was charred and black, + Fire had swept from pole to pole; + And the bottom of the sea + Was as brittle as a bowl; + + And the timbered mountain-top + Was as naked as a skull,-- + Nothing left, nothing left, + Of the Earth so beautiful! + + "Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?" + "You are all I have," I said; + "What is left to take my mind up, + Living always, and you dead?" + + "Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something! + Make a sign that I can see! + For a keepsake! To keep always! + Quick!--before God misses me!" + + And I listened for a voice;-- + But my heart was all I heard; + Not a screech-owl, not a loon, + Not a tree-toad said a word. + + And I waited for a sign;-- + Coals and cinders, nothing more; + And a little cloud of smoke + Floating on a valley floor. + + And I peered into the smoke + Till it rotted, like a fog:-- + There, encompassed round by fire, + Stood a blue-flag in a bog! + + Little flames came wading out, + Straining, straining towards its stem, + But it was so blue and tall + That it scorned to think of them! + + Red and thirsty were their tongues, + As the tongues of wolves must be, + But it was so blue and tall-- + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! + + All my heart became a tear, + All my soul became a tower, + Never loved I anything + As I loved that tall blue flower! + + It was all the little boats + That had ever sailed the sea, + It was all the little books + That had gone to school with me; + + On its roots like iron claws + Rearing up so blue and tall,-- + It was all the gallant Earth + With its back against a wall! + + In a breath, ere I had breathed,-- + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!-- + I was kneeling at its side, + And it leaned its head on me! + + Crumbling stones and sliding sand + Is the road to Heaven now; + Icy at my straining knees + Drags the awful under-tow; + + Soon but stepping-stones of dust + Will the road to Heaven be,-- + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + "There--there, my blue-flag flower; + Hush--hush--go to sleep; + That is only God you hear, + Counting up His folded sheep! + + Lullabye--lullabye-- + That is only God that calls, + Missing me, seeking me, + Ere the road to nothing falls! + + He will set His mighty feet + Firmly on the sliding sand; + Like a little frightened bird + I will creep into His hand; + + I will tell Him all my grief, + I will tell Him all my sin; + He will give me half His robe + For a cloak to wrap you in. + + Lullabye--lullabye--" + Rocks the burnt-out planet free!-- + Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + + Ah, the voice of love at last! + Lo, at last the face of light! + And the whole of His white robe + For a cloak against the night! + + And upon my heart asleep + All the things I ever knew!-- + "Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, + For a flower so tall and blue?" + + All's well and all's well! + Gay the lights of Heaven show! + In some moist and Heavenly place + We will set it out to grow. + + + + +JOURNEY + + Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass + And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind + Blow over me--I am so tired, so tired + Of passing pleasant places! All my life, + Following Care along the dusty road, + Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; + Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand + Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long + Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; + And now I fain would lie in this long grass + And close my eyes. + Yet onward! + Cat birds call + Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk + Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, + Drawing the twilight close about their throats. + Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines + Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees + Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; + Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern + And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread + Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, + Look back and beckon ere they disappear. + Only my heart, only my heart responds. + Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side + All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot + And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- + But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, + And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, + The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, + Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road + A gateless garden, and an open path: + My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. + + + + +EEL-GRASS + + No matter what I say, + All that I really love + Is the rain that flattens on the bay, + And the eel-grass in the cove; + The jingle-shells that lie and bleach + At the tide-line, and the trace + Of higher tides along the beach: + Nothing in this place. + + + + +ELEGY BEFORE DEATH + + There will be rose and rhododendron + When you are dead and under ground; + Still will be heard from white syringas + Heavy with bees, a sunny sound; + + Still will the tamaracks be raining + After the rain has ceased, and still + Will there be robins in the stubble, + Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. + + Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; + Nothing will know that you are gone, + Saving alone some sullen plough-land + None but yourself sets foot upon; + + Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed + Nothing will know that you are dead,-- + These, and perhaps a useless wagon + Standing beside some tumbled shed. + + Oh, there will pass with your great passing + Little of beauty not your own,-- + Only the light from common water, + Only the grace from simple stone! + + + + +THE BEAN-STALK + + Ho, Giant! This is I! + I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! + La,--but it's lovely, up so high! + + This is how I came,--I put + Here my knee, there my foot, + Up and up, from shoot to shoot-- + And the blessed bean-stalk thinning + Like the mischief all the time, + Till it took me rocking, spinning, + In a dizzy, sunny circle, + Making angles with the root, + Far and out above the cackle + Of the city I was born in, + Till the little dirty city + In the light so sheer and sunny + Shone as dazzling bright and pretty + As the money that you find + In a dream of finding money-- + What a wind! What a morning!-- + + Till the tiny, shiny city, + When I shot a glance below, + Shaken with a giddy laughter, + Sick and blissfully afraid, + Was a dew-drop on a blade, + And a pair of moments after + Was the whirling guess I made,-- + And the wind was like a whip + + Cracking past my icy ears, + And my hair stood out behind, + And my eyes were full of tears, + Wide-open and cold, + More tears than they could hold, + The wind was blowing so, + And my teeth were in a row, + Dry and grinning, + And I felt my foot slip, + And I scratched the wind and whined, + And I clutched the stalk and jabbered, + With my eyes shut blind,-- + What a wind! What a wind! + + Your broad sky, Giant, + Is the shelf of a cupboard; + I make bean-stalks, I'm + A builder, like yourself, + But bean-stalks is my trade, + I couldn't make a shelf, + Don't know how they're made, + Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant-- + La, what a climb! + + + + +WEEDS + + White with daisies and red with sorrel + And empty, empty under the sky!-- + Life is a quest and love a quarrel-- + Here is a place for me to lie. + + Daisies spring from damned seeds, + And this red fire that here I see + Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, + Cursed by farmers thriftily. + + But here, unhated for an hour, + The sorrel runs in ragged flame, + The daisy stands, a bastard flower, + Like flowers that bear an honest name. + + And here a while, where no wind brings + The baying of a pack athirst, + May sleep the sleep of blessed things, + The blood too bright, the brow accurst. + + + + +PASSER MORTUUS EST + + Death devours all lovely things; + Lesbia with her sparrow + Shares the darkness,--presently + Every bed is narrow. + + Unremembered as old rain + Dries the sheer libation, + And the little petulant hand + Is an annotation. + + After all, my erstwhile dear, + My no longer cherished, + Need we say it was not love, + Now that love is perished? + + + + +PASTORAL + + If it were only still!-- + With far away the shrill + Crying of a cock; + Or the shaken bell + From a cow's throat + Moving through the bushes; + Or the soft shock + Of wizened apples falling + From an old tree + In a forgotten orchard + Upon the hilly rock! + + Oh, grey hill, + Where the grazing herd + Licks the purple blossom, + Crops the spiky weed! + Oh, stony pasture, + Where the tall mullein + Stands up so sturdy + On its little seed! + + + + +ASSAULT + + I + + I had forgotten how the frogs must sound + After a year of silence, else I think + I should not so have ventured forth alone + At dusk upon this unfrequented road. + + + II + + I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk + Between me and the crying of the frogs? + Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, + That am a timid woman, on her way + From one house to another! + + + + +TRAVEL + + The railroad track is miles away, + And the day is loud with voices speaking, + Yet there isn't a train goes by all day + But I hear its whistle shrieking. + + All night there isn't a train goes by, + Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming + But I see its cinders red on the sky, + And hear its engine steaming. + + My heart is warm with the friends I make, + And better friends I'll not be knowing, + Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, + No matter where it's going. + + + + +LOW-TIDE + + These wet rocks where the tide has been, + Barnacled white and weeded brown + And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, + These wet rocks where the tide went down + Will show again when the tide is high + Faint and perilous, far from shore, + No place to dream, but a place to die,-- + The bottom of the sea once more. + There was a child that wandered through + A giant's empty house all day,-- + House full of wonderful things and new, + But no fit place for a child to play. + + + + +SONG OF A SECOND APRIL + + April this year, not otherwise + Than April of a year ago, + Is full of whispers, full of sighs, + Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; + Hepaticas that pleased you so + Are here again, and butterflies. + + There rings a hammering all day, + And shingles lie about the doors; + In orchards near and far away + The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; + The men are merry at their chores, + And children earnest at their play. + + The larger streams run still and deep, + Noisy and swift the small brooks run + Among the mullein stalks the sheep + Go up the hillside in the sun, + Pensively,--only you are gone, + You that alone I cared to keep. + + + + +ROSEMARY + + For the sake of some things + That be now no more + I will strew rushes + On my chamber-floor, + I will plant bergamot + At my kitchen-door. + + For the sake of dim things + That were once so plain + I will set a barrel + Out to catch the rain, + I will hang an iron pot + On an iron crane. + + Many things be dead and gone + That were brave and gay; + For the sake of these things + I will learn to say, + "An it please you, gentle sirs," + "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!" + + + + +THE POET AND HIS BOOK + + Down, you mongrel, Death! + Back into your kennel! + I have stolen breath + In a stalk of fennel! + You shall scratch and you shall whine + Many a night, and you shall worry + Many a bone, before you bury + One sweet bone of mine! + + When shall I be dead? + When my flesh is withered, + And above my head + Yellow pollen gathered + All the empty afternoon? + When sweet lovers pause and wonder + Who am I that lie thereunder, + Hidden from the moon? + + This my personal death?-- + That lungs be failing + To inhale the breath + Others are exhaling? + This my subtle spirit's end?-- + Ah, when the thawed winter splashes + Over these chance dust and ashes, + Weep not me, my friend! + + Me, by no means dead + In that hour, but surely + When this book, unread, + Rots to earth obscurely, + And no more to any breast, + Close against the clamorous swelling + Of the thing there is no telling, + Are these pages pressed! + + When this book is mould, + And a book of many + Waiting to be sold + For a casual penny, + In a little open case, + In a street unclean and cluttered, + Where a heavy mud is spattered + From the passing drays, + + Stranger, pause and look; + From the dust of ages + Lift this little book, + Turn the tattered pages, + Read me, do not let me die! + Search the fading letters, finding + Steadfast in the broken binding + All that once was I! + + When these veins are weeds, + When these hollowed sockets + Watch the rooty seeds + Bursting down like rockets, + And surmise the spring again, + Or, remote in that black cupboard, + Watch the pink worms writhing upward + At the smell of rain, + + Boys and girls that lie + Whispering in the hedges, + Do not let me die, + Mix me with your pledges; + Boys and girls that slowly walk + In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, + Staring past the pink wild laurel, + Mix me with your talk, + + Do not let me die! + Farmers at your raking, + When the sun is high, + While the hay is making, + When, along the stubble strewn, + Withering on their stalks uneaten, + Strawberries turn dark and sweeten + In the lapse of noon; + + Shepherds on the hills, + In the pastures, drowsing + To the tinkling bells + Of the brown sheep browsing; + Sailors crying through the storm; + Scholars at your study; hunters + Lost amid the whirling winter's + Whiteness uniform; + + Men that long for sleep; + Men that wake and revel;-- + If an old song leap + To your senses' level + At such moments, may it be + Sometimes, though a moment only, + Some forgotten, quaint and homely + Vehicle of me! + + Women at your toil, + Women at your leisure + Till the kettle boil, + Snatch of me your pleasure, + Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; + Women quiet with your weeping + Lest you wake a workman sleeping, + Mix me with your grief! + + Boys and girls that steal + From the shocking laughter + Of the old, to kneel + By a dripping rafter + Under the discolored eaves, + Out of trunks with hingeless covers + Lifting tales of saints and lovers, + Travelers, goblins, thieves, + + Suns that shine by night, + Mountains made from valleys,-- + Bear me to the light, + Flat upon your bellies + By the webby window lie, + Where the little flies are crawling,-- + Read me, margin me with scrawling, + Do not let me die! + + Sexton, ply your trade! + In a shower of gravel + Stamp upon your spade! + Many a rose shall ravel, + Many a metal wreath shall rust + In the rain, and I go singing + Through the lots where you are flinging + Yellow clay on dust! + + + + +ALMS + + My heart is what it was before, + A house where people come and go; + But it is winter with your love, + The sashes are beset with snow. + + I light the lamp and lay the cloth, + I blow the coals to blaze again; + But it is winter with your love, + The frost is thick upon the pane. + + I know a winter when it comes: + The leaves are listless on the boughs; + I watched your love a little while, + And brought my plants into the house. + + I water them and turn them south, + I snap the dead brown from the stem; + But it is winter with your love,-- + I only tend and water them. + + There was a time I stood and watched + The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; + I loved the beggar that I fed, + I cared for what he had to say, + + I stood and watched him out of sight; + Today I reach around the door + And set a bowl upon the step; + My heart is what it was before, + + But it is winter with your love; + I scatter crumbs upon the sill, + And close the window,--and the birds + May take or leave them, as they will. + + + + +INLAND + + People that build their houses inland, + People that buy a plot of ground + Shaped like a house, and build a house there, + Far from the sea-board, far from the sound + + Of water sucking the hollow ledges, + Tons of water striking the shore,-- + What do they long for, as I long for + One salt smell of the sea once more? + + People the waves have not awakened, + Spanking the boats at the harbor's head, + What do they long for, as I long for,-- + Starting up in my inland bed, + + Beating the narrow walls, and finding + Neither a window nor a door, + Screaming to God for death by drowning,-- + One salt taste of the sea once more? + + + + +TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + + Minstrel, what have you to do + With this man that, after you, + Sharing not your happy fate, + Sat as England's Laureate? + Vainly, in these iron days, + Strives the poet in your praise, + Minstrel, by whose singing side + Beauty walked, until you died. + + Still, though none should hark again, + Drones the blue-fly in the pane, + Thickly crusts the blackest moss, + Blows the rose its musk across, + Floats the boat that is forgot + None the less to Camelot. + + Many a bard's untimely death + Lends unto his verses breath; + Here's a song was never sung: + Growing old is dying young. + Minstrel, what is this to you: + That a man you never knew, + When your grave was far and green, + Sat and gossipped with a queen? + + Thalia knows how rare a thing + Is it, to grow old and sing; + When a brown and tepid tide + Closes in on every side. + Who shall say if Shelley's gold + Had withstood it to grow old? + + + + +WRAITH + + "Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, + That you haunt my door?" + --Surely it is not I she's wanting; + Someone living here before-- + "Nobody's in the house but me: + You may come in if you like and see." + + Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,-- + Have you seen her, any of you?-- + Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, + And the garden showing through? + + Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly, + Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, + Asking something, asking it over, + If you get a sound from her.-- + + Ever see her, any of you?-- + Strangest thing I've ever known,-- + Every night since I moved in, + And I came to be alone. + + "Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! + You may not come in! + This is I that you hear rocking; + Nobody's with me, nor has been!" + + Curious, how she tried the window,-- + Odd, the way she tries the door,-- + Wonder just what sort of people + Could have had this house before . . . + + + + +EBB + + I know what my heart is like + Since your love died: + It is like a hollow ledge + Holding a little pool + Left there by the tide, + A little tepid pool, + Drying inward from the edge. + + + + +ELAINE + + OH, come again to Astolat! + I will not ask you to be kind. + And you may go when you will go, + And I will stay behind. + + I will not say how dear you are, + Or ask you if you hold me dear, + Or trouble you with things for you + The way I did last year. + + So still the orchard, Lancelot, + So very still the lake shall be, + You could not guess--though you should guess-- + What is become of me. + + So wide shall be the garden-walk, + The garden-seat so very wide, + You needs must think--if you should think-- + The lily maid had died. + + Save that, a little way away, + I'd watch you for a little while, + To see you speak, the way you speak, + And smile,--if you should smile. + + + + +BURIAL + + Mine is a body that should die at sea! + And have for a grave, instead of a grave + Six feet deep and the length of me, + All the water that is under the wave! + + And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, + Such as a living man might fear, + And eat me while I am firm and fresh,-- + Not wait till I've been dead for a year! + + + + +MARIPOSA + + Butterflies are white and blue + In this field we wander through. + Suffer me to take your hand. + Death comes in a day or two. + + All the things we ever knew + Will be ashes in that hour, + Mark the transient butterfly, + How he hangs upon the flower. + + Suffer me to take your hand. + Suffer me to cherish you + Till the dawn is in the sky. + Whether I be false or true, + Death comes in a day or two. + + + + +THE LITTLE HILL + + OH, here the air is sweet and still, + And soft's the grass to lie on; + And far away's the little hill + They took for Christ to die on. + + And there's a hill across the brook, + And down the brook's another; + But, oh, the little hill they took,-- + I think I am its mother! + + The moon that saw Gethsemane, + I watch it rise and set: + It has so many things to see, + They help it to forget. + + But little hills that sit at home + So many hundred years, + Remember Greece, remember Rome, + Remember Mary's tears. + + And far away in Palestine, + Sadder than any other, + Grieves still the hill that I call mine,-- + I think I am its mother! + + + + +DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + + Doubt no more that Oberon-- + Never doubt that Pan + Lived, and played a reed, and ran + After nymphs in a dark forest, + In the merry, credulous days,-- + Lived, and led a fairy band + Over the indulgent land! + Ah, for in this dourest, sorest + Age man's eye has looked upon, + Death to fauns and death to fays, + Still the dog-wood dares to raise-- + Healthy tree, with trunk and root-- + Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, + And the starlings and the jays-- + Birds that cannot even sing-- + Dare to come again in spring! + + + + +LAMENT + + Listen, children: + Your father is dead. + From his old coats + I'll make you little jackets; + I'll make you little trousers + From his old pants. + There'll be in his pockets + Things he used to put there, + Keys and pennies + Covered with tobacco; + Dan shall have the pennies + To save in his bank; + Anne shall have the keys + To make a pretty noise with. + Life must go on, + And the dead be forgotten; + Life must go on, + Though good men die; + Anne, eat your breakfast; + Dan, take your medicine; + Life must go on; + I forget just why. + + + + +EXILED + + Searching my heart for its true sorrow, + This is the thing I find to be: + That I am weary of words and people, + Sick of the city, wanting the sea; + + Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness + Of the strong wind and shattered spray; + Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound + Of the big surf that breaks all day. + + Always before about my dooryard, + Marking the reach of the winter sea, + Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, + Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; + + Always I climbed the wave at morning, + Shook the sand from my shoes at night, + That now am caught beneath great buildings, + Stricken with noise, confused with light. + + If I could hear the green piles groaning + Under the windy wooden piers, + See once again the bobbing barrels, + And the black sticks that fence the weirs, + + If I could see the weedy mussels + Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, + Hear once again the hungry crying + Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, + + Feel once again the shanty straining + Under the turning of the tide, + Fear once again the rising freshet, + Dread the bell in the fog outside,-- + + I should be happy,--that was happy + All day long on the coast of Maine! + I have a need to hold and handle + Shells and anchors and ships again! + + I should be happy, that am happy + Never at all since I came here. + I am too long away from water. + I have a need of water near. + + + + +THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + + When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, + And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind + Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned + Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, + Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, + Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,-- + Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes + My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, + And will be born again,--but ah, to see + Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! + Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me? + + + + +ODE TO SILENCE + + Aye, but she? + Your other sister and my other soul + Grave Silence, lovelier + Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? + Clio, not you, + Not you, Calliope, + Nor all your wanton line, + Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me + For Silence once departed, + For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, + Whom evermore I follow wistfully, + Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; + Thalia, not you, + Not you, Melpomene, + Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, + I seek in this great hall, + But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. + I seek her from afar, + I come from temples where her altars are, + From groves that bear her name, + Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, + And cymbals struck on high and strident faces + Obstreperous in her praise + They neither love nor know, + A goddess of gone days, + Departed long ago, + Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes + Of her old sanctuary, + A deity obscure and legendary, + Of whom there now remains, + For sages to decipher and priests to garble, + Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, + Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, + And the inarticulate snow, + Leaving at last of her least signs and traces + None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. + "She will love well," I said, + "If love be of that heart inhabiter, + The flowers of the dead; + The red anemone that with no sound + Moves in the wind, and from another wound + That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, + That blossoms underground, + And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. + And will not Silence know + In the black shade of what obsidian steep + Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? + (Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home, + Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, + Reluctant even as she, + Undone Persephone, + And even as she set out again to grow + In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam). + She will love well," I said, + "The flowers of the dead; + Where dark Persephone the winter round, + Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, + Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, + With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, + Stares on the stagnant stream + That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, + There, there will she be found, + She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound." + + "I long for Silence as they long for breath + Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; + What thing can be + So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death + What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, + Upon whose icy breast, + Unquestioned, uncaressed, + One time I lay, + And whom always I lack, + Even to this day, + Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, + If only she therewith be given me back?" + I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, + Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, + And in among the bloodless everywhere + I sought her, but the air, + Breathed many times and spent, + Was fretful with a whispering discontent, + And questioning me, importuning me to tell + Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, + Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. + I paused at every grievous door, + And harked a moment, holding up my hand,--and for a space + A hush was on them, while they watched my face; + And then they fell a-whispering as before; + So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. + I sought her, too, + Among the upper gods, although I knew + She was not like to be where feasting is, + Nor near to Heaven's lord, + Being a thing abhorred + And shunned of him, although a child of his, + (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, + Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). + Fearing to pass unvisited some place + And later learn, too late, how all the while, + With her still face, + She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, + I sought her even to the sagging board whereat + The stout immortals sat; + But such a laughter shook the mighty hall + No one could hear me say: + Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? + And no one knew at all + How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away. + + There is a garden lying in a lull + Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, + I know not where, but which a dream diurnal + Paints on my lids a moment till the hull + Be lifted from the kernel + And Slumber fed to me. + Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, + Though it would seem a ruined place and after + Your lichenous heart, being full + Of broken columns, caryatides + Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, + And urns funereal altered into dust + Minuter than the ashes of the dead, + And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust, + Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed + Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. + + There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria + Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, + And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; + There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; + But never an echo of your daughters' laughter + Is there, nor any sign of you at all + Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! + + Only her shadow once upon a stone + I saw,--and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. + + I tell you you have done her body an ill, + You chatterers, you noisy crew! + She is not anywhere! + I sought her in deep Hell; + And through the world as well; + I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; + Above nor under ground + Is Silence to be found, + That was the very warp and woof of you, + Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! + Oh, say if on this hill + Somewhere your sister's body lies in death, + So I may follow there, and make a wreath + Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast + Shall lie till age has withered them! + + (Ah, sweetly from the rest + I see + Turn and consider me + Compassionate Euterpe!) + "There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, + Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, + Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith, + "Whereon but to believe is horror! + Whereon to meditate engendereth + Even in deathless spirits such as I + A tumult in the breath, + A chilling of the inexhaustible blood + Even in my veins that never will be dry, + And in the austere, divine monotony + That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. + + This is her province whom you lack and seek; + And seek her not elsewhere. + Hell is a thoroughfare + For pilgrims,--Herakles, + And he that loved Euridice too well, + Have walked therein; and many more than these; + And witnessed the desire and the despair + Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; + You, too, have entered Hell, + And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak + None has returned;--for thither fury brings + Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. + Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there." + + Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! + Be long upon this height + I shall not climb again! + I know the way you mean,--the little night, + And the long empty day,--never to see + Again the angry light, + Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! + Ah, but she, + Your other sister and my other soul, + She shall again be mine; + And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, + A chilly thin green wine, + Not bitter to the taste, + Not sweet, + Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,-- + To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth-- + But savoring faintly of the acid earth, + And trod by pensive feet + From perfect clusters ripened without haste + Out of the urgent heat + In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. + + Lift up your lyres! Sing on! + But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. + + + + +MEMORIAL TO D. C. + [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] + + + Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, + Where now no more the music is, + With hands that wrote you little notes + I write you little elegies! + + + + +EPITAPH + + Heap not on this mound + Roses that she loved so well; + Why bewilder her with roses, + That she cannot see or smell? + She is happy where she lies + With the dust upon her eyes. + + + + +PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE + + Be to her, Persephone, + All the things I might not be; + Take her head upon your knee. + She that was so proud and wild, + Flippant, arrogant and free, + She that had no need of me, + Is a little lonely child + Lost in Hell,--Persephone, + Take her head upon your knee; + Say to her, "My dear, my dear, + It is not so dreadful here." + + + + +CHORUS + + Give away her gowns, + Give away her shoes; + She has no more use + For her fragrant gowns; + Take them all down, + Blue, green, blue, + Lilac, pink, blue, + From their padded hangers; + She will dance no more + In her narrow shoes; + Sweep her narrow shoes + From the closet floor. + + + + +ELEGY + + Let them bury your big eyes + In the secret earth securely, + Your thin fingers, and your fair, + Soft, indefinite-colored hair,-- + All of these in some way, surely, + From the secret earth shall rise; + Not for these I sit and stare, + Broken and bereft completely; + Your young flesh that sat so neatly + On your little bones will sweetly + Blossom in the air. + + But your voice,--never the rushing + Of a river underground, + Not the rising of the wind + In the trees before the rain, + Not the woodcock's watery call, + Not the note the white-throat utters, + Not the feet of children pushing + Yellow leaves along the gutters + In the blue and bitter fall, + Shall content my musing mind + For the beauty of that sound + That in no new way at all + Ever will be heard again. + + Sweetly through the sappy stalk + Of the vigorous weed, + Holding all it held before, + Cherished by the faithful sun, + On and on eternally + Shall your altered fluid run, + Bud and bloom and go to seed; + But your singing days are done; + But the music of your talk + Never shall the chemistry + Of the secret earth restore. + All your lovely words are spoken. + Once the ivory box is broken, + Beats the golden bird no more. + + + + +DIRGE + + Boys and girls that held her dear, + Do your weeping now; + All you loved of her lies here. + + Brought to earth the arrogant brow, + And the withering tongue + Chastened; do your weeping now. + + Sing whatever songs are sung, + Wind whatever wreath, + For a playmate perished young, + + For a spirit spent in death. + Boys and girls that held her dear, + All you loved of her lies here. + + + + +SONNETS + + + I + + We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; + Well, such you are,--but well enough we know + How thick about us root, how rankly grow + Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, + That flourish through neglect, and soon must send + Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow + Our steady senses; how such matters go + We are aware, and how such matters end. + Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; + With lovers such as we forevermore + Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere + Receives the Table's ruin through her door, + Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, + Lets fall the colored book upon the floor. + + + II + + Into the golden vessel of great song + Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast + Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; + Not we,--articulate, so, but with the tongue + Of all the world: the churning blood, the long + Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed + Sharply together upon the escaping guest, + The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. + Longing alone is singer to the lute; + Let still on nettles in the open sigh + The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute + As any man, and love be far and high, + That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit + Found on the ground by every passer-by. + + + III + + Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter + We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove, + Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after + The launching of the colored moths of Love. + Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone + We bound about our irreligious brows, + And fettered him with garlands of our own, + And spread a banquet in his frugal house. + Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear + Though we should break our bodies in his flame, + And pour our blood upon his altar, here + Henceforward is a grove without a name, + A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan, + Whence flee forever a woman and a man. + + + IV + + Only until this cigarette is ended, + A little moment at the end of all, + While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, + And in the firelight to a lance extended, + Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, + The broken shadow dances on the wall, + I will permit my memory to recall + The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. + And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done. + Yours is a face of which I can forget + The color and the features, every one, + The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; + But in your day this moment is the sun + Upon a hill, after the sun has set. + + + V + + Once more into my arid days like dew, + Like wind from an oasis, or the sound + Of cold sweet water bubbling underground, + A treacherous messenger, the thought of you + Comes to destroy me; once more I renew + Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found + Long since to be but just one other mound + Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew. + And once again, and wiser in no wise, + I chase your colored phantom on the air, + And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise + And stumble pitifully on to where, + Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, + Once more I clasp,--and there is nothing there. + + + VI + + No rose that in a garden ever grew, + In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine, + Though buried under centuries of fine + Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew + Forever, and forever lost from view, + But must again in fragrance rich as wine + The grey aisles of the air incarnadine + When the old summers surge into a new. + Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart," + 'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear, + 'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece; + And thus as well my love must lose some part + Of what it is, had Helen been less fair, + Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece. + + + VII + + When I too long have looked upon your face, + Wherein for me a brightness unobscured + Save by the mists of brightness has its place, + And terrible beauty not to be endured, + I turn away reluctant from your light, + And stand irresolute, a mind undone, + A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight + From having looked too long upon the sun. + Then is my daily life a narrow room + In which a little while, uncertainly, + Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, + Among familiar things grown strange to me + Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, + Till I become accustomed to the dark. + + + VIII + + And you as well must die, beloved dust, + And all your beauty stand you in no stead; + This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, + This body of flame and steel, before the gust + Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, + Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead + Than the first leaf that fell,--this wonder fled. + Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. + Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. + In spite of all my love, you will arise + Upon that day and wander down the air + Obscurely as the unattended flower, + It mattering not how beautiful you were, + Or how beloved above all else that dies. + + + IX + + Let you not say of me when I am old, + In pretty worship of my withered hands + Forgetting who I am, and how the sands + Of such a life as mine run red and gold + Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, + Here walketh passionless age!"--for there expands + A curious superstition in these lands, + And by its leave some weightless tales are told. + + In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; + I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; + Impious no less in ruin than in strength, + When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, + Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site + The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." + + + X + + Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this: + How in the years to come unscrupulous Time, + More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss, + And make you old, and leave me in my prime? + How you and I, who scale together yet + A little while the sweet, immortal height + No pilgrim may remember or forget, + As sure as the world turns, some granite night + Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame + Gone out forever on the mutual stone; + And call to mind that on the day you came + I was a child, and you a hero grown?-- + And the night pass, and the strange morning break + Upon our anguish for each other's sake! + + + XI + + As to some lovely temple, tenantless + Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, + Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass + Grown up between the stones, yet from excess + Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness, + The worshiper returns, and those who pass + Marvel him crying on a name that was,-- + So is it now with me in my distress. + Your body was a temple to Delight; + Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled, + Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; + Here might I hope to find you day or night, + And here I come to look for you, my love, + Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead. + + + XII + + Cherish you then the hope I shall forget + At length, my lord, Pieria?--put away + For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay + These mortal bones against my body set, + For all the puny fever and frail sweat + Of human love,--renounce for these, I say, + The Singing Mountain's memory, and betray + The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet? + Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake, + Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side + So many nights, a lover and a bride, + But stern in my soul's chastity, have lain, + To walk the world forever for my sake, + And in each chamber find me gone again! + + + + +WILD SWANS + + I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. + And what did I see I had not seen before? + Only a question less or a question more; + Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying. + Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, + House without air, I leave you and lock your door. + Wild swans, come over the town, come over + The town again, trailing your legs and crying! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second April, by Edna St. Vincent Millay + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND APRIL *** + +***** This file should be named 1247.txt or 1247.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/4/1247/ + +Produced by Judy Boss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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DOW + + + +CONTENTS + + SPRING INLAND + CITY TREES TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG WRAITH + JOURNEY EBB + EEL-GRASS ELAINE + ELEGY BEFORE DEATH BURIAL + THE BEAN-STALK MARIPOSA + WEEDS THE LITTLE HILL + PASSER MORTUUS EST DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + PASTORAL LAMENT + ASSAULT EXILED + TRAVEL THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + LOW-TIDE ODE TO SILENCE + SONG OF A SECOND APRIL MEMORIAL TO D. C. + ROSEMARY UNNAMED SONNETS I-XII + THE POET AND HIS BOOK WILD SWANS + ALMS + + + + + +SECOND APRIL + + + +SPRING + +To what purpose, April, do you return again? +Beauty is not enough. +You can no longer quiet me with the redness +Of little leaves opening stickily. +I know what I know. +The sun is hot on my neck as I observe +The spikes of the crocus. +The smell of the earth is good. +It is apparent that there is no death. +But what does that signify? +Not only under ground are the brains of men +Eaten by maggots, +Life in itself +Is nothing, +An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. +It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, +April +Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. + + + +CITY TREES + +The trees along this city street, + Save for the traffic and the trains, +Would make a sound as thin and sweet + As trees in country lanes. + +And people standing in their shade + Out of a shower, undoubtedly +Would hear such music as is made + Upon a country tree. + +Oh, little leaves that are so dumb + Against the shrieking city air, +I watch you when the wind has come,-- + I know what sound is there. + + + +THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG + +God had called us, and we came; + Our loved Earth to ashes left; +Heaven was a neighbor's house, + Open to us, bereft. + +Gay the lights of Heaven showed, + And 'twas God who walked ahead; +Yet I wept along the road, + Wanting my own house instead. + +Wept unseen, unheeded cried, + "All you things my eyes have kissed, +Fare you well! We meet no more, + Lovely, lovely tattered mist! + +Weary wings that rise and fall + All day long above the fire!"-- +Red with heat was every wall, + Rough with heat was every wire-- + +"Fare you well, you little winds + That the flying embers chase! +Fare you well, you shuddering day, + With your hands before your face! + +And, ah, blackened by strange blight, + Or to a false sun unfurled, +Now forevermore goodbye, + All the gardens in the world! + +On the windless hills of Heaven, + That I have no wish to see, +White, eternal lilies stand, + By a lake of ebony. + +But the Earth forevermore + Is a place where nothing grows,-- +Dawn will come, and no bud break; + Evening, and no blossom close. + +Spring will come, and wander slow + Over an indifferent land, +Stand beside an empty creek, + Hold a dead seed in her hand." + +God had called us, and we came, + But the blessed road I trod +Was a bitter road to me, + And at heart I questioned God. + +"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the heart would most desire, +Held Earth naught save souls of sinners + Worth the saving from a fire? + +Withered grass,--the wasted growing! + Aimless ache of laden boughs!" +Little things God had forgotten + Called me, from my burning house. + +"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the eye could ask to see, +All the things I ever knew + Are this blaze in back of me." + +"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all + That the ear could think to lack, +All the things I ever knew + Are this roaring at my back." + +It was God who walked ahead, + Like a shepherd to the fold; +In his footsteps fared the weak, + And the weary and the old, + +Glad enough of gladness over, + Ready for the peace to be,-- +But a thing God had forgotten + Was the growing bones of me. + +And I drew a bit apart, + And I lagged a bit behind, +And I thought on Peace Eternal, + Lest He look into my mind: + +And I gazed upon the sky, + And I thought of Heavenly Rest,-- +And I slipped away like water + Through the fingers of the blest! + +All their eyes were fixed on Glory, + Not a glance brushed over me; +"Alleluia! Alleluia!" + Up the road,--and I was free. + +And my heart rose like a freshet, + And it swept me on before, +Giddy as a whirling stick, + Till I felt the earth once more. + +All the earth was charred and black, + Fire had swept from pole to pole; +And the bottom of the sea + Was as brittle as a bowl; + +And the timbered mountain-top + Was as naked as a skull,-- +Nothing left, nothing left, + Of the Earth so beautiful! + +"Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?" + "You are all I have," I said; +"What is left to take my mind up, + Living always, and you dead?" + +"Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something! + Make a sign that I can see! +For a keepsake! To keep always! + Quick!--before God misses me!" + +And I listened for a voice;-- + But my heart was all I heard; +Not a screech-owl, not a loon, + Not a tree-toad said a word. + +And I waited for a sign;-- + Coals and cinders, nothing more; +And a little cloud of smoke + Floating on a valley floor. + +And I peered into the smoke + Till it rotted, like a fog:-- +There, encompassed round by fire, + Stood a blue-flag in a bog! + +Little flames came wading out, + Straining, straining towards its stem, +But it was so blue and tall + That it scorned to think of them! + +Red and thirsty were their tongues, + As the tongues of wolves must be, +But it was so blue and tall-- + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! + +All my heart became a tear, + All my soul became a tower, +Never loved I anything + As I loved that tall blue flower! + +It was all the little boats + That had ever sailed the sea, +It was all the little books + That had gone to school with me; + +On its roots like iron claws + Rearing up so blue and tall,-- +It was all the gallant Earth + With its back against a wall! + +In a breath, ere I had breathed,-- + Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!-- +I was kneeling at its side, + And it leaned its head on me! + +Crumbling stones and sliding sand + Is the road to Heaven now; +Icy at my straining knees + Drags the awful under-tow; + +Soon but stepping-stones of dust + Will the road to Heaven be,-- +Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + +"There--there, my blue-flag flower; + Hush--hush--go to sleep; +That is only God you hear, + Counting up His folded sheep! + +Lullabye--lullabye-- + That is only God that calls, +Missing me, seeking me, + Ere the road to nothing falls! + +He will set His mighty feet + Firmly on the sliding sand; +Like a little frightened bird + I will creep into His hand; + +I will tell Him all my grief, + I will tell Him all my sin; +He will give me half His robe + For a cloak to wrap you in. + +Lullabye--lullabye--" + Rocks the burnt-out planet free!-- +Father, Son and Holy Ghost, + Reach a hand and rescue me! + +Ah, the voice of love at last! + Lo, at last the face of light! +And the whole of His white robe + For a cloak against the night! + +And upon my heart asleep + All the things I ever knew!-- +"Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, + For a flower so tall and blue?" + +All's well and all's well! + Gay the lights of Heaven show! +In some moist and Heavenly place + We will set it out to grow. + + + +JOURNEY + +Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass +And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind +Blow over me--I am so tired, so tired +Of passing pleasant places! All my life, +Following Care along the dusty road, +Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; +Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand +Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long +Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; +And now I fain would lie in this long grass +And close my eyes. + Yet onward! + Cat birds call +Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk +Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, +Drawing the twilight close about their throats. +Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines +Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees +Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; +Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern +And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread +Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, +Look back and beckon ere they disappear. +Only my heart, only my heart responds. +Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side +All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot +And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- +But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, +And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, +The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, +Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road +A gateless garden, and an open path: +My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. + + + +EEL-GRASS + +No matter what I say, + All that I really love +Is the rain that flattens on the bay, + And the eel-grass in the cove; +The jingle-shells that lie and bleach + At the tide-line, and the trace +Of higher tides along the beach: + Nothing in this place. + + + +ELEGY BEFORE DEATH + +There will be rose and rhododendron + When you are dead and under ground; +Still will be heard from white syringas + Heavy with bees, a sunny sound; + +Still will the tamaracks be raining + After the rain has ceased, and still +Will there be robins in the stubble, + Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. + +Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; + Nothing will know that you are gone, +Saving alone some sullen plough-land + None but yourself sets foot upon; + +Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed + Nothing will know that you are dead,-- +These, and perhaps a useless wagon + Standing beside some tumbled shed. + +Oh, there will pass with your great passing + Little of beauty not your own,-- +Only the light from common water, + Only the grace from simple stone! + + + +THE BEAN-STALK + +Ho, Giant! This is I! +I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky! +La,--but it's lovely, up so high! + +This is how I came,--I put +Here my knee, there my foot, +Up and up, from shoot to shoot-- +And the blessed bean-stalk thinning +Like the mischief all the time, +Till it took me rocking, spinning, +In a dizzy, sunny circle, +Making angles with the root, +Far and out above the cackle +Of the city I was born in, +Till the little dirty city +In the light so sheer and sunny +Shone as dazzling bright and pretty +As the money that you find +In a dream of finding money-- +What a wind! What a morning!-- + +Till the tiny, shiny city, +When I shot a glance below, +Shaken with a giddy laughter, +Sick and blissfully afraid, +Was a dew-drop on a blade, +And a pair of moments after +Was the whirling guess I made,-- +And the wind was like a whip + +Cracking past my icy ears, +And my hair stood out behind, +And my eyes were full of tears, +Wide-open and cold, +More tears than they could hold, +The wind was blowing so, +And my teeth were in a row, +Dry and grinning, +And I felt my foot slip, +And I scratched the wind and whined, +And I clutched the stalk and jabbered, +With my eyes shut blind,-- +What a wind! What a wind! + +Your broad sky, Giant, +Is the shelf of a cupboard; +I make bean-stalks, I'm +A builder, like yourself, +But bean-stalks is my trade, +I couldn't make a shelf, +Don't know how they're made, +Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant-- +La, what a climb! + + + +WEEDS + +White with daisies and red with sorrel + And empty, empty under the sky!-- +Life is a quest and love a quarrel-- + Here is a place for me to lie. + +Daisies spring from damned seeds, + And this red fire that here I see +Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, + Cursed by farmers thriftily. + +But here, unhated for an hour, + The sorrel runs in ragged flame, +The daisy stands, a bastard flower, + Like flowers that bear an honest name. + +And here a while, where no wind brings + The baying of a pack athirst, +May sleep the sleep of blessed things, + The blood too bright, the brow accurst. + + + +PASSER MORTUUS EST + +Death devours all lovely things; + Lesbia with her sparrow +Shares the darkness,--presently + Every bed is narrow. + +Unremembered as old rain + Dries the sheer libation, +And the little petulant hand + Is an annotation. + +After all, my erstwhile dear, + My no longer cherished, +Need we say it was not love, + Now that love is perished? + + + +PASTORAL + +If it were only still!-- +With far away the shrill +Crying of a cock; +Or the shaken bell +From a cow's throat +Moving through the bushes; +Or the soft shock +Of wizened apples falling +From an old tree +In a forgotten orchard +Upon the hilly rock! + +Oh, grey hill, +Where the grazing herd +Licks the purple blossom, +Crops the spiky weed! +Oh, stony pasture, +Where the tall mullein +Stands up so sturdy +On its little seed! + + + +ASSAULT + +I + +I had forgotten how the frogs must sound +After a year of silence, else I think +I should not so have ventured forth alone +At dusk upon this unfrequented road. + + +II + +I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk +Between me and the crying of the frogs? +Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, +That am a timid woman, on her way +From one house to another! + + + +TRAVEL + +The railroad track is miles away, + And the day is loud with voices speaking, +Yet there isn't a train goes by all day + But I hear its whistle shrieking. + +All night there isn't a train goes by, + Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming +But I see its cinders red on the sky, + And hear its engine steaming. + +My heart is warm with the friends I make, + And better friends I'll not be knowing, +Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, + No matter where it's going. + + + +LOW-TIDE + +These wet rocks where the tide has been, + Barnacled white and weeded brown +And slimed beneath to a beautiful green, + These wet rocks where the tide went down +Will show again when the tide is high + Faint and perilous, far from shore, +No place to dream, but a place to die,-- + The bottom of the sea once more. +There was a child that wandered through + A giant's empty house all day,-- +House full of wonderful things and new, + But no fit place for a child to play. + + + +SONG OF A SECOND APRIL + +April this year, not otherwise + Than April of a year ago, +Is full of whispers, full of sighs, + Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; + Hepaticas that pleased you so +Are here again, and butterflies. + +There rings a hammering all day, + And shingles lie about the doors; +In orchards near and far away + The grey wood-pecker taps and bores; + The men are merry at their chores, +And children earnest at their play. + +The larger streams run still and deep, + Noisy and swift the small brooks run +Among the mullein stalks the sheep + Go up the hillside in the sun, + Pensively,--only you are gone, +You that alone I cared to keep. + + + +ROSEMARY + +For the sake of some things + That be now no more +I will strew rushes + On my chamber-floor, +I will plant bergamot + At my kitchen-door. + +For the sake of dim things + That were once so plain +I will set a barrel + Out to catch the rain, +I will hang an iron pot + On an iron crane. + +Many things be dead and gone + That were brave and gay; +For the sake of these things + I will learn to say, +"An it please you, gentle sirs," + "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!" + + + +THE POET AND HIS BOOK + +Down, you mongrel, Death! + Back into your kennel! +I have stolen breath + In a stalk of fennel! +You shall scratch and you shall whine + Many a night, and you shall worry + Many a bone, before you bury +One sweet bone of mine! + +When shall I be dead? + When my flesh is withered, +And above my head + Yellow pollen gathered +All the empty afternoon? + When sweet lovers pause and wonder + Who am I that lie thereunder, +Hidden from the moon? + +This my personal death?-- + That lungs be failing +To inhale the breath + Others are exhaling? +This my subtle spirit's end?-- + Ah, when the thawed winter splashes + Over these chance dust and ashes, +Weep not me, my friend! + +Me, by no means dead + In that hour, but surely +When this book, unread, + Rots to earth obscurely, +And no more to any breast, + Close against the clamorous swelling + Of the thing there is no telling, +Are these pages pressed! + +When this book is mould, + And a book of many +Waiting to be sold + For a casual penny, +In a little open case, + In a street unclean and cluttered, + Where a heavy mud is spattered +From the passing drays, + +Stranger, pause and look; + From the dust of ages +Lift this little book, + Turn the tattered pages, +Read me, do not let me die! + Search the fading letters, finding + Steadfast in the broken binding +All that once was I! + +When these veins are weeds, + When these hollowed sockets +Watch the rooty seeds + Bursting down like rockets, +And surmise the spring again, + Or, remote in that black cupboard, + Watch the pink worms writhing upward +At the smell of rain, + +Boys and girls that lie + Whispering in the hedges, +Do not let me die, + Mix me with your pledges; +Boys and girls that slowly walk + In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, + Staring past the pink wild laurel, +Mix me with your talk, + +Do not let me die! + Farmers at your raking, +When the sun is high, + While the hay is making, +When, along the stubble strewn, + Withering on their stalks uneaten, + Strawberries turn dark and sweeten +In the lapse of noon; + +Shepherds on the hills, + In the pastures, drowsing +To the tinkling bells + Of the brown sheep browsing; +Sailors crying through the storm; + Scholars at your study; hunters + Lost amid the whirling winter's +Whiteness uniform; + +Men that long for sleep; + Men that wake and revel;-- +If an old song leap + To your senses' level +At such moments, may it be + Sometimes, though a moment only, + Some forgotten, quaint and homely +Vehicle of me! + +Women at your toil, + Women at your leisure +Till the kettle boil, + Snatch of me your pleasure, +Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; + Women quiet with your weeping + Lest you wake a workman sleeping, +Mix me with your grief! + +Boys and girls that steal + From the shocking laughter +Of the old, to kneel + By a dripping rafter +Under the discolored eaves, + Out of trunks with hingeless covers + Lifting tales of saints and lovers, +Travelers, goblins, thieves, + +Suns that shine by night, + Mountains made from valleys,-- +Bear me to the light, + Flat upon your bellies +By the webby window lie, + Where the little flies are crawling,-- + Read me, margin me with scrawling, +Do not let me die! + +Sexton, ply your trade! + In a shower of gravel +Stamp upon your spade! + Many a rose shall ravel, +Many a metal wreath shall rust + In the rain, and I go singing + Through the lots where you are flinging +Yellow clay on dust! + + + +ALMS + +My heart is what it was before, + A house where people come and go; +But it is winter with your love, + The sashes are beset with snow. + +I light the lamp and lay the cloth, + I blow the coals to blaze again; +But it is winter with your love, + The frost is thick upon the pane. + +I know a winter when it comes: + The leaves are listless on the boughs; +I watched your love a little while, + And brought my plants into the house. + +I water them and turn them south, + I snap the dead brown from the stem; +But it is winter with your love,-- + I only tend and water them. + +There was a time I stood and watched + The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; +I loved the beggar that I fed, + I cared for what he had to say, + +I stood and watched him out of sight; + Today I reach around the door +And set a bowl upon the step; + My heart is what it was before, + +But it is winter with your love; + I scatter crumbs upon the sill, +And close the window,--and the birds + May take or leave them, as they will. + + + +INLAND + +People that build their houses inland, + People that buy a plot of ground +Shaped like a house, and build a house there, + Far from the sea-board, far from the sound + +Of water sucking the hollow ledges, + Tons of water striking the shore,-- +What do they long for, as I long for + One salt smell of the sea once more? + +People the waves have not awakened, + Spanking the boats at the harbor's head, +What do they long for, as I long for,-- + Starting up in my inland bed, + +Beating the narrow walls, and finding + Neither a window nor a door, +Screaming to God for death by drowning,-- + One salt taste of the sea once more? + + + +TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG + +Minstrel, what have you to do +With this man that, after you, +Sharing not your happy fate, +Sat as England's Laureate? +Vainly, in these iron days, +Strives the poet in your praise, +Minstrel, by whose singing side +Beauty walked, until you died. + +Still, though none should hark again, +Drones the blue-fly in the pane, +Thickly crusts the blackest moss, +Blows the rose its musk across, +Floats the boat that is forgot +None the less to Camelot. + +Many a bard's untimely death +Lends unto his verses breath; +Here's a song was never sung: +Growing old is dying young. +Minstrel, what is this to you: +That a man you never knew, +When your grave was far and green, +Sat and gossipped with a queen? + +Thalia knows how rare a thing +Is it, to grow old and sing; +When a brown and tepid tide +Closes in on every side. +Who shall say if Shelley's gold +Had withstood it to grow old? + + + +WRAITH + +"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, + That you haunt my door?" +--Surely it is not I she's wanting; + Someone living here before-- +"Nobody's in the house but me: +You may come in if you like and see." + +Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,-- + Have you seen her, any of you?-- +Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, + And the garden showing through? + +Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly, + Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, +Asking something, asking it over, + If you get a sound from her.-- + +Ever see her, any of you?-- + Strangest thing I've ever known,-- +Every night since I moved in, + And I came to be alone. + +"Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! + You may not come in! +This is I that you hear rocking; + Nobody's with me, nor has been!" + +Curious, how she tried the window,-- + Odd, the way she tries the door,-- +Wonder just what sort of people + Could have had this house before . . . + + + +EBB + +I know what my heart is like + Since your love died: +It is like a hollow ledge +Holding a little pool + Left there by the tide, + A little tepid pool, +Drying inward from the edge. + + + +ELAINE + +OH, come again to Astolat! + I will not ask you to be kind. +And you may go when you will go, + And I will stay behind. + +I will not say how dear you are, + Or ask you if you hold me dear, +Or trouble you with things for you + The way I did last year. + +So still the orchard, Lancelot, + So very still the lake shall be, +You could not guess--though you should guess-- + What is become of me. + +So wide shall be the garden-walk, + The garden-seat so very wide, +You needs must think--if you should think-- + The lily maid had died. + +Save that, a little way away, + I'd watch you for a little while, +To see you speak, the way you speak, + And smile,--if you should smile. + + + +BURIAL + +Mine is a body that should die at sea! + And have for a grave, instead of a grave +Six feet deep and the length of me, + All the water that is under the wave! + +And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, + Such as a living man might fear, +And eat me while I am firm and fresh,-- + Not wait till I've been dead for a year! + + + +MARIPOSA + +Butterflies are white and blue +In this field we wander through. +Suffer me to take your hand. +Death comes in a day or two. + +All the things we ever knew +Will be ashes in that hour, +Mark the transient butterfly, +How he hangs upon the flower. + +Suffer me to take your hand. +Suffer me to cherish you +Till the dawn is in the sky. +Whether I be false or true, +Death comes in a day or two. + + + +THE LITTLE HILL + +OH, here the air is sweet and still, + And soft's the grass to lie on; +And far away's the little hill + They took for Christ to die on. + +And there's a hill across the brook, + And down the brook's another; +But, oh, the little hill they took,-- + I think I am its mother! + +The moon that saw Gethsemane, + I watch it rise and set: +It has so many things to see, + They help it to forget. + +But little hills that sit at home + So many hundred years, +Remember Greece, remember Rome, + Remember Mary's tears. + +And far away in Palestine, + Sadder than any other, +Grieves still the hill that I call mine,-- + I think I am its mother! + + + +DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON + +Doubt no more that Oberon-- +Never doubt that Pan +Lived, and played a reed, and ran +After nymphs in a dark forest, +In the merry, credulous days,-- +Lived, and led a fairy band +Over the indulgent land! +Ah, for in this dourest, sorest +Age man's eye has looked upon, +Death to fauns and death to fays, +Still the dog-wood dares to raise-- +Healthy tree, with trunk and root-- +Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, +And the starlings and the jays-- +Birds that cannot even sing-- +Dare to come again in spring! + + + +LAMENT + +Listen, children: +Your father is dead. +From his old coats +I'll make you little jackets; +I'll make you little trousers +From his old pants. +There'll be in his pockets +Things he used to put there, +Keys and pennies +Covered with tobacco; +Dan shall have the pennies +To save in his bank; +Anne shall have the keys +To make a pretty noise with. +Life must go on, +And the dead be forgotten; +Life must go on, +Though good men die; +Anne, eat your breakfast; +Dan, take your medicine; +Life must go on; +I forget just why. + + + +EXILED + +Searching my heart for its true sorrow, + This is the thing I find to be: +That I am weary of words and people, + Sick of the city, wanting the sea; + +Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness + Of the strong wind and shattered spray; +Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound + Of the big surf that breaks all day. + +Always before about my dooryard, + Marking the reach of the winter sea, +Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, + Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; + +Always I climbed the wave at morning, + Shook the sand from my shoes at night, +That now am caught beneath great buildings, + Stricken with noise, confused with light. + +If I could hear the green piles groaning + Under the windy wooden piers, +See once again the bobbing barrels, + And the black sticks that fence the weirs, + +If I could see the weedy mussels + Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, +Hear once again the hungry crying + Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, + +Feel once again the shanty straining + Under the turning of the tide, +Fear once again the rising freshet, + Dread the bell in the fog outside,-- + +I should be happy,--that was happy + All day long on the coast of Maine! +I have a need to hold and handle + Shells and anchors and ships again! + +I should be happy, that am happy + Never at all since I came here. +I am too long away from water. + I have a need of water near. + + + +THE DEATH OF AUTUMN + +When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, +And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind +Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned +Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, +Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, +Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,-- +Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes +My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, +And will be born again,--but ah, to see +Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! +Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me? + + + +ODE TO SILENCE + + Aye, but she? + Your other sister and my other soul + Grave Silence, lovelier + Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? + Clio, not you, + Not you, Calliope, + Nor all your wanton line, + Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me + For Silence once departed, + For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, + Whom evermore I follow wistfully, +Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; +Thalia, not you, +Not you, Melpomene, +Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, +I seek in this great hall, +But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. +I seek her from afar, +I come from temples where her altars are, +From groves that bear her name, +Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, +And cymbals struck on high and strident faces +Obstreperous in her praise +They neither love nor know, +A goddess of gone days, +Departed long ago, +Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes +Of her old sanctuary, +A deity obscure and legendary, +Of whom there now remains, +For sages to decipher and priests to garble, +Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, +Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, +And the inarticulate snow, +Leaving at last of her least signs and traces +None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. +"She will love well," I said, +"If love be of that heart inhabiter, +The flowers of the dead; +The red anemone that with no sound +Moves in the wind, and from another wound +That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, +That blossoms underground, +And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. +And will not Silence know +In the black shade of what obsidian steep +Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? +(Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home, +Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, +Reluctant even as she, +Undone Persephone, +And even as she set out again to grow +In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam). +She will love well," I said, +"The flowers of the dead; +Where dark Persephone the winter round, +Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, +Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, +With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, +Stares on the stagnant stream +That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, +There, there will she be found, +She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound." + +"I long for Silence as they long for breath +Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; +What thing can be +So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death +What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, +Upon whose icy breast, +Unquestioned, uncaressed, +One time I lay, +And whom always I lack, +Even to this day, +Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, +If only she therewith be given me back?" +I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, +Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, +And in among the bloodless everywhere +I sought her, but the air, +Breathed many times and spent, +Was fretful with a whispering discontent, +And questioning me, importuning me to tell +Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, +Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. +I paused at every grievous door, +And harked a moment, holding up my hand,--and for a space +A hush was on them, while they watched my face; +And then they fell a-whispering as before; +So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. +I sought her, too, +Among the upper gods, although I knew +She was not like to be where feasting is, +Nor near to Heaven's lord, +Being a thing abhorred +And shunned of him, although a child of his, +(Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, +Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). +Fearing to pass unvisited some place +And later learn, too late, how all the while, +With her still face, +She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, +I sought her even to the sagging board whereat +The stout immortals sat; +But such a laughter shook the mighty hall +No one could hear me say: +Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? +And no one knew at all +How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away. + +There is a garden lying in a lull +Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, +I know not where, but which a dream diurnal +Paints on my lids a moment till the hull +Be lifted from the kernel +And Slumber fed to me. +Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, +Though it would seem a ruined place and after +Your lichenous heart, being full +Of broken columns, caryatides +Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, +And urns funereal altered into dust +Minuter than the ashes of the dead, +And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust, +Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed +Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. + +There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria +Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, +And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; +There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; +But never an echo of your daughters' laughter +Is there, nor any sign of you at all +Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! + +Only her shadow once upon a stone +I saw,--and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. + +I tell you you have done her body an ill, +You chatterers, you noisy crew! +She is not anywhere! +I sought her in deep Hell; +And through the world as well; +I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; +Above nor under ground +Is Silence to be found, +That was the very warp and woof of you, +Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! +Oh, say if on this hill +Somewhere your sister's body lies in death, +So I may follow there, and make a wreath +Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast +Shall lie till age has withered them! + + (Ah, sweetly from the rest +I see +Turn and consider me +Compassionate Euterpe!) +"There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, +Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, +Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith, +"Whereon but to believe is horror! +Whereon to meditate engendereth +Even in deathless spirits such as I +A tumult in the breath, +A chilling of the inexhaustible blood +Even in my veins that never will be dry, +And in the austere, divine monotony +That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. + +This is her province whom you lack and seek; +And seek her not elsewhere. +Hell is a thoroughfare +For pilgrims,--Herakles, +And he that loved Euridice too well, +Have walked therein; and many more than these; +And witnessed the desire and the despair +Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; +You, too, have entered Hell, +And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak +None has returned;--for thither fury brings +Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. +Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there." + +Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! +Be long upon this height +I shall not climb again! +I know the way you mean,--the little night, +And the long empty day,--never to see +Again the angry light, +Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! +Ah, but she, +Your other sister and my other soul, +She shall again be mine; +And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, +A chilly thin green wine, +Not bitter to the taste, +Not sweet, +Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,-- +To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth-- +But savoring faintly of the acid earth, +And trod by pensive feet +From perfect clusters ripened without haste +Out of the urgent heat +In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine. + +Lift up your lyres! Sing on! +But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone. + + + +MEMORIAL TO D. C. +[VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918] + + +Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats, + Where now no more the music is, +With hands that wrote you little notes + I write you little elegies! + + + +EPITAPH + +Heap not on this mound + Roses that she loved so well; +Why bewilder her with roses, + That she cannot see or smell? +She is happy where she lies + With the dust upon her eyes. + + + +PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE + +Be to her, Persephone, +All the things I might not be; +Take her head upon your knee. +She that was so proud and wild, +Flippant, arrogant and free, +She that had no need of me, +Is a little lonely child +Lost in Hell,--Persephone, +Take her head upon your knee; +Say to her, "My dear, my dear, +It is not so dreadful here." + + + +CHORUS + +Give away her gowns, +Give away her shoes; +She has no more use +For her fragrant gowns; +Take them all down, +Blue, green, blue, +Lilac, pink, blue, +From their padded hangers; +She will dance no more +In her narrow shoes; +Sweep her narrow shoes +From the closet floor. + + + +ELEGY + +Let them bury your big eyes +In the secret earth securely, +Your thin fingers, and your fair, +Soft, indefinite-colored hair,-- +All of these in some way, surely, +From the secret earth shall rise; +Not for these I sit and stare, +Broken and bereft completely; +Your young flesh that sat so neatly +On your little bones will sweetly +Blossom in the air. + +But your voice,--never the rushing +Of a river underground, +Not the rising of the wind +In the trees before the rain, +Not the woodcock's watery call, +Not the note the white-throat utters, +Not the feet of children pushing +Yellow leaves along the gutters +In the blue and bitter fall, +Shall content my musing mind +For the beauty of that sound +That in no new way at all +Ever will be heard again. + +Sweetly through the sappy stalk +Of the vigorous weed, +Holding all it held before, +Cherished by the faithful sun, +On and on eternally +Shall your altered fluid run, +Bud and bloom and go to seed; +But your singing days are done; +But the music of your talk +Never shall the chemistry +Of the secret earth restore. +All your lovely words are spoken. +Once the ivory box is broken, +Beats the golden bird no more. + + + +DIRGE + +Boys and girls that held her dear, + Do your weeping now; +All you loved of her lies here. + +Brought to earth the arrogant brow, + And the withering tongue +Chastened; do your weeping now. + +Sing whatever songs are sung, + Wind whatever wreath, +For a playmate perished young, + +For a spirit spent in death. +Boys and girls that held her dear, +All you loved of her lies here. + + + +SONNETS + + +I + +We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; +Well, such you are,--but well enough we know +How thick about us root, how rankly grow +Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, +That flourish through neglect, and soon must send +Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow +Our steady senses; how such matters go +We are aware, and how such matters end. +Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; +With lovers such as we forevermore +Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere +Receives the Table's ruin through her door, +Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, +Lets fall the colored book upon the floor. + + +II + +Into the golden vessel of great song +Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast +Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; +Not we,--articulate, so, but with the tongue +Of all the world: the churning blood, the long +Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed +Sharply together upon the escaping guest, +The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. +Longing alone is singer to the lute; +Let still on nettles in the open sigh +The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute +As any man, and love be far and high, +That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit +Found on the ground by every passer-by. + + +III + +Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter +We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove, +Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after +The launching of the colored moths of Love. +Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone +We bound about our irreligious brows, +And fettered him with garlands of our own, +And spread a banquet in his frugal house. +Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear +Though we should break our bodies in his flame, +And pour our blood upon his altar, here +Henceforward is a grove without a name, +A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan, +Whence flee forever a woman and a man. + + +IV + +Only until this cigarette is ended, +A little moment at the end of all, +While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, +And in the firelight to a lance extended, +Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, +The broken shadow dances on the wall, +I will permit my memory to recall +The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. +And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done. +Yours is a face of which I can forget +The color and the features, every one, +The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; +But in your day this moment is the sun +Upon a hill, after the sun has set. + + +V + +Once more into my arid days like dew, +Like wind from an oasis, or the sound +Of cold sweet water bubbling underground, +A treacherous messenger, the thought of you +Comes to destroy me; once more I renew +Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found +Long since to be but just one other mound +Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew. +And once again, and wiser in no wise, +I chase your colored phantom on the air, +And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise +And stumble pitifully on to where, +Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, +Once more I clasp,--and there is nothing there. + + +VI + +No rose that in a garden ever grew, +In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine, +Though buried under centuries of fine +Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew +Forever, and forever lost from view, +But must again in fragrance rich as wine +The grey aisles of the air incarnadine +When the old summers surge into a new. +Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart," +'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear, +'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece; +And thus as well my love must lose some part +Of what it is, had Helen been less fair, +Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece. + + +VII + +When I too long have looked upon your face, +Wherein for me a brightness unobscured +Save by the mists of brightness has its place, +And terrible beauty not to be endured, +I turn away reluctant from your light, +And stand irresolute, a mind undone, +A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight +From having looked too long upon the sun. +Then is my daily life a narrow room +In which a little while, uncertainly, +Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, +Among familiar things grown strange to me +Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, +Till I become accustomed to the dark. + + +VIII + +And you as well must die, beloved dust, +And all your beauty stand you in no stead; +This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, +This body of flame and steel, before the gust +Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, +Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead +Than the first leaf that fell,--this wonder fled. +Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. +Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. +In spite of all my love, you will arise +Upon that day and wander down the air +Obscurely as the unattended flower, +It mattering not how beautiful you were, +Or how beloved above all else that dies. + + +IX + +Let you not say of me when I am old, +In pretty worship of my withered hands +Forgetting who I am, and how the sands +Of such a life as mine run red and gold +Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, +Here walketh passionless age!"--for there expands +A curious superstition in these lands, +And by its leave some weightless tales are told. + +In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; +I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; +Impious no less in ruin than in strength, +When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, +Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site +The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." + + +X + +Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this: +How in the years to come unscrupulous Time, +More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss, +And make you old, and leave me in my prime? +How you and I, who scale together yet +A little while the sweet, immortal height +No pilgrim may remember or forget, +As sure as the world turns, some granite night +Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame +Gone out forever on the mutual stone; +And call to mind that on the day you came +I was a child, and you a hero grown?-- +And the night pass, and the strange morning break +Upon our anguish for each other's sake! + + +XI + +As to some lovely temple, tenantless +Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass, +Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass +Grown up between the stones, yet from excess +Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness, +The worshiper returns, and those who pass +Marvel him crying on a name that was,-- +So is it now with me in my distress. +Your body was a temple to Delight; +Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled, +Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; +Here might I hope to find you day or night, +And here I come to look for you, my love, +Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead. + + +XII + +Cherish you then the hope I shall forget +At length, my lord, Pieria?--put away +For your so passing sake, this mouth of clay +These mortal bones against my body set, +For all the puny fever and frail sweat +Of human love,--renounce for these, I say, +The Singing Mountain's memory, and betray +The silent lyre that hangs upon me yet? +Ah, but indeed, some day shall you awake, +Rather, from dreams of me, that at your side +So many nights, a lover and a bride, +But stern in my soul's chastity, have lain, +To walk the world forever for my sake, +And in each chamber find me gone again! + + + +WILD SWANS + +I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over. +And what did I see I had not seen before? +Only a question less or a question more; +Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying. +Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, +House without air, I leave you and lock your door. +Wild swans, come over the town, come over +The town again, trailing your legs and crying! + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext Second April, by Edna St. Vincent Millay + + diff --git a/old/old/april10.zip b/old/old/april10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d67ac59 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/april10.zip |