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diff --git a/6682.txt b/6682.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..00f54a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/6682.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1465 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Nets to Catch the Wind, by Elinor Wylie + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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: Nets to Catch the Wind + +Author: Elinor Wylie + +Posting Date: March 11, 2014 [EBook #6682] +Release Date: October, 2004 +First Posted: January 12, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NETS TO CATCH THE WIND *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Tom Allen, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +NETS TO CATCH THE WIND + +By ELINOR WYLIE + + + + +CONTENTS + + +BEAUTY + +THE EAGLE AND THE MOLE + +MADMAN'S SONG + +THE PRINKIN' LEDDIE + +AUGUST + +THE CROOKED STICK + +ATAVISM + +WILD PEACHES + +SANCTUARY + +THE LION AND THE LAMB + +THE CHURCH-BELL + +A CROWDED TROLLEY CAR + +BELLS IN THE RAIN + +WINTER SLEEP + +VILLAGE MYSTERY + +SUNSET ON THE SPIRE + +ESCAPE + +THE FAIRY GOLDSMITH + +"FIRE AND SLEET AND CANDLELIGHT" + +BLOOD FEUD + +SEA LULLABY + +NANCY + +A PROUD LADY + +THE TORTOISE IN ETERNITY + +INCANTATION + +SILVER FILIGREE + +THE FALCON + +BRONZE TRUMPETS AND SEA WATER--ON TURNING LATIN INTO ENGLISH + +SPRING PASTORAL + +VELVET SHOES + +VALENTINE + + + + + BEAUTY + + + Say not of Beauty she is good, + Or aught but beautiful, + Or sleek to doves' wings of the wood + Her wild wings of a gull. + + Call her not wicked; that word's touch + Consumes her like a curse; + But love her not too much, too much, + For that is even worse. + + O, she is neither good nor bad, + But innocent and wild! + Enshrine her and she dies, who had + The hard heart of a child. + + + + + THE EAGLE AND THE MOLE + + + Avoid the reeking herd, + Shun the polluted flock, + Live like that stoic bird, + The eagle of the rock. + + The huddled warmth of crowds + Begets and fosters hate; + He keeps, above the clouds, + His cliff inviolate. + + When flocks are folded warm, + And herds to shelter run, + He sails above the storm, + He stares into the sun. + + If in the eagle's track + Your sinews cannot leap, + Avoid the lathered pack, + Turn from the steaming sheep. + + If you would keep your soul + From spotted sight or sound, + Live like the velvet mole; + Go burrow underground. + + And there hold intercourse + With roots of trees and stones, + With rivers at their source, + And disembodied bones. + + + + + MADMAN'S SONG + + + Better to see your cheek grown hollow, + Better to see your temple worn, + Than to forget to follow, follow, + After the sound of a silver horn. + + Better to bind your brow with willow + And follow, follow until you die, + Than to sleep with your head on a golden pillow, + Nor lift it up when the hunt goes by. + + Better to see your cheek grown sallow + And your hair grown gray, so soon, so soon, + Than to forget to hallo, hallo, + After the milk-white hounds of the moon. + + + + + THE PRINKIN' LEDDIE + + + _"The Hielan' lassies are a' for spinnin' + The Lowlan' lassies for prinkin' and pinnin'; + My daddie w'u'd chide me, an' so w'u'd my minnie + If I s'u'd bring hame sic a prinkin' leddie."_ + + Now haud your tongue, ye haverin' coward, + For whilst I'm young I'll go flounced an' flowered, + In lutestring striped like the strings o' a fiddle, + Wi' gowden girdles aboot my middle. + + In your Hielan' glen, where the rain pours steady, + Ye'll be gay an' glad for a prinkin' leddie; + Where the rocks are all bare an' the turf is all sodden, + An' lassies gae sad in their homespun an' hodden. + + My silks are stiff wi' patterns o' siller, + I've an ermine hood like the hat o' a miller, + I've chains o' coral like rowan berries, + An' a cramoisie mantle that cam' frae Paris. + + Ye'll be glad for the glint o' its scarlet linin' + When the larks are up an' the sun is shinin'; + When the winds are up an' ower the heather + Your heart'll be gay wi' my gowden feather. + + When the skies are low an' the earth is frozen, + Ye'll be gay an' glad for the leddie ye've chosen, + When ower the snow I go prinkin' an' prancin' + In my wee red slippers were made for dancin'. + + It's better a leddie like Solomon's lily + Than one that'll run like a Hielan' gillie + A-linkin' it ower the leas, my laddie, + In a raggedy kilt an' a belted plaidie! + + + + + AUGUST + + + Why should this Negro insolently stride + Down the red noonday on such noiseless feet? + Piled in his barrow, tawnier than wheat, + Lie heaps of smoldering daisies, somber-eyed, + Their copper petals shriveled up with pride, + Hot with a superfluity of heat, + Like a great brazier borne along the street + By captive leopards, black and burning pied. + + Are there no water-lilies, smooth as cream, + With long stems dripping crystal? Are there none + Like those white lilies, luminous and cool, + Plucked from some hemlock-darkened northern stream + By fair-haired swimmers, diving where the sun + Scarce warms the surface of the deepest pool? + + + + + THE CROOKED STICK + + + First Traveler: What's that lying in the dust? + Second Traveler: A crooked stick. + First Traveler: What's it worth, if you can trust + To arithmetic? + Second Traveler: Isn't this a riddle? + First Traveler: No, a trick. + Second Traveler: It's worthless. Leave it where it lies. + First Traveler: Wait; count ten; + Rub a little dust upon your eyes; + Now, look again. + Second Traveler: Well, and what the devil is it, then? + First Traveler: It's the sort of crooked stick that shepherds know. + Second Traveler: Some one's loss! + First Traveler: Bend it, and you make of it a bow. + Break it, a cross. + Second Traveler: But it's all grown over with moss! + + + + + ATAVISM + + + I always was afraid of Somes's Pond: + Not the little pond, by which the willow stands, + Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands + In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond. + There, when the frost makes all the birches burn + Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines + Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines, + Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn. + + You'll say I dream it, being the true daughter + Of those who in old times endured this dread. + Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red + A silent paddle moves below the water, + A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath; + Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death. + + + + + WILD PEACHES + + + 1 + + When the world turns completely upside down + You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore + Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; + We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town. + You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown + Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold color. + Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, + We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown. + + The winter will be short, the summer long, + The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, + Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; + All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. + The squirrels in their silver fur will fall + Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. + + + 2 + + The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass + Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. + The misted early mornings will be cold; + The little puddles will be roofed with glass. + The sun, which burns from copper into brass, + Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold + Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold, + Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. + + Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; + A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; + The spring begins before the winter's over. + By February you may find the skins + Of garter snakes and water moccasins + Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. + + + 3 + + When April pours the colors of a shell + Upon the hills, when every little creek + Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake + In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, + When strawberries go begging, and the sleek + Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, + We shall live well--we shall live very well. + + The months between the cherries and the peaches + Are brimming cornucopias which spill + Fruits red and purple, somber-bloomed and black; + Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches + We'll trample bright persimmons, while we kill + Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvas-back. + + + 4 + + Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones + There's something in this richness that I hate. + I love the look, austere, immaculate, + Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. + There's something in my very blood that owns + Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, + A thread of water, churned to milky spate + Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. + + I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, + Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves; + That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath, + Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, + Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, + And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death. + + + + + SANCTUARY + + + This is the bricklayer; hear the thud + Of his heavy load dumped down on stone. + His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood, + His smoking mortar whiter than bone. + + Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick + Straight by the plumb-line's shivering length; + Make my marvelous wall so thick + Dead nor living may shake its strength. + + Full as a crystal cup with drink + Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool.... + Stop, old man! You must leave a chink; + How can I breathe? _You can't, you fool!_ + + + + + THE LION AND THE LAMB + + + I saw a Tiger's golden flank, + I saw what food he ate, + By a desert spring he drank; + The Tiger's name was Hate. + + Then I saw a placid Lamb + Lying fast asleep; + Like a river from its dam + Flashed the Tiger's leap. + + I saw a Lion tawny-red, + Terrible and brave; + The Tiger's leap overhead + Broke like a wave. + + In sand below or sun above + He faded like a flame. + The Lamb said, "I am Love"; + "Lion, tell your name." + + The Lion's voice thundering + Shook his vaulted breast, + "I am Love. By this spring, + Brother, let us rest." + + + + + THE CHURCH-BELL + + + As I was lying in my bed + I heard the church-bell ring; + Before one solemn word was said + A bird began to sing. + + I heard a dog begin to bark + And a bold crowing cock; + The bell, between the cold and dark, + Tolled. It was five o'clock. + + The church-bell tolled, and the bird sang, + A clear true voice he had; + The cock crew, and the church-bell rang, + I knew it had gone mad. + + A hand reached down from the dark skies, + It took the bell-rope thong, + The bell cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!" + The clapper shook to song. + + The iron clapper laughed aloud, + Like clashing wind and wave; + The bell cried out "Be strong and proud!" + Then, with a shout, "Be brave!" + + The rumbling of the market-carts, + The pounding of men's feet + Were drowned in song; "Lift up your hearts!" + The sound was loud and sweet. + + Slow and slow the great bell swung, + It hung in the steeple mute; + And people tore its living tongue + Out by the very root. + + + + + A CROWDED TROLLEY CAR + + + The rain's cold grains are silver-gray + Sharp as golden sands, + A bell is clanging, people sway + Hanging by their hands. + + Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff, + Snatch and catch and grope; + That face is yellow-pale, as if + The fellow swung from rope. + + Dull like pebbles, sharp like knives, + Glances strike and glare, + Fingers tangle, Bluebeard's wives + Dangle by the hair. + + Orchard of the strangest fruits + Hanging from the skies; + Brothers, yet insensate brutes + Who fear each others' eyes. + + One man stands as free men stand, + As if his soul might be + Brave, unbroken; see his hand + Nailed to an oaken tree. + + + + + BELLS IN THE RAIN + + + Sleep falls, with limpid drops of rain, + Upon the steep cliffs of the town. + Sleep falls; men are at peace again + Awhile the small drops fall softly down. + + The bright drops ring like bells of glass + Thinned by the wind, and lightly blown; + Sleep cannot fall on peaceful grass + So softly as it falls on stone. + + Peace falls unheeded on the dead + Asleep; they have had deep peace to drink; + Upon a live man's bloody head + It falls most tenderly, I think. + + + + + WINTER SLEEP + + + When against earth a wooden heel + Clicks as loud as stone and steel, + When snow turns flour instead of flakes, + And frost bakes clay as fire bakes, + When the hard-bitten fields at last + Crack like iron flawed in the cast, + When the world is wicked and cross and old, + I long to be quit of the cruel cold. + + Little birds like bubbles of glass + Fly to other Americas, + Birds as bright as sparkles of wine + Fly in the night to the Argentine, + Birds of azure and flame-birds go + To the tropical Gulf of Mexico: + They chase the sun, they follow the heat, + It is sweet in their bones, O sweet, sweet, sweet! + It's not with them that I'd love to be, + But under the roots of the balsam tree. + + Just as the spiniest chestnut-burr + Is lined within with the finest fur, + So the stony-walled, snow-roofed house + Of every squirrel and mole and mouse + Is lined with thistledown, sea-gull's feather, + Velvet mullein-leaf, heaped together + With balsam and juniper, dry and curled, + Sweeter than anything else in the world. + O what a warm and darksome nest + Where the wildest things are hidden to rest! + It's there that I'd love to lie and sleep, + Soft, soft, soft, and deep, deep, deep! + + + + + VILLAGE MYSTERY + + + The woman in the pointed hood + And cloak blue-gray like a pigeon's wing, + Whose orchard climbs to the balsam-wood, + Has done a cruel thing. + + To her back door-step came a ghost, + A girl who had been ten years dead, + She stood by the granite hitching-post + And begged for a piece of bread. + + Now why should I, who walk alone, + Who am ironical and proud, + Turn, when a woman casts a stone + At a beggar in a shroud? + + I saw the dead girl cringe and whine, + And cower in the weeping air-- + But, oh, she was no kin of mine, + And so I did not care! + + + + + SUNSET ON THE SPIRE + + + All that I dream + By day or night + Lives in that stream + Of lovely light. + Here is the earth, + And there is the spire; + This is my hearth, + And that is my fire. + From the sun's dome + I am shouted proof + That this is my home, + And that is my roof. + Here is my food, + And here is my drink, + And I am wooed + From the moon's brink. + And the days go over, + And the nights end; + Here is my lover, + Here is my friend. + All that I + Could ever ask + Wears that sky + Like a thin gold mask. + + + + + ESCAPE + + + When foxes eat the last gold grape, + And the last white antelope is killed, + I shall stop fighting and escape + Into a little house I'll build. + + But first I'll shrink to fairy size, + With a whisper no one understands, + Making blind moons of all your eyes, + And muddy roads of all your hands. + + And you may grope for me in vain + In hollows under the mangrove root, + Or where, in apple-scented rain, + The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit. + + + + + THE FAIRY GOLDSMITH + + + Here's a wonderful thing, + A humming-bird's wing + In hammered gold, + And store well chosen + Of snowflakes frozen + In crystal cold. + + Black onyx cherries + And mistletoe berries + Of chrysoprase, + Jade buds, tight shut, + All carven and cut + In intricate ways. + + Here, if you please + Are little gilt bees + In amber drops + Which look like honey, + Translucent and sunny, + From clover-tops. + + Here's an elfin girl + Of mother-of-pearl + And moonshine made, + With tortoise-shell hair + Both dusky and fair + In its light and shade. + + Here's lacquer laid thin, + Like a scarlet skin + On an ivory fruit; + And a filigree frost + Of frail notes lost + From a fairy lute. + + Here's a turquoise chain + Of sun-shower rain + To wear if you wish; + And glimmering green + With aquamarine, + A silvery fish. + + Here are pearls all strung + On a thread among + Pretty pink shells; + And bubbles blown + From the opal stone + Which ring like bells. + + Touch them and take them, + But do not break them! + Beneath your hand + They will wither like foam + If you carry them home + Out of fairy-land. + + O, they never can last + Though you hide them fast + From moth and from rust; + In your monstrous day + They will crumble away + Into quicksilver dust. + + + + + "FIRE AND SLEET AND CANDLELIGHT" + + + For this you've striven + Daring, to fail: + Your sky is riven + Like a tearing veil. + + For this, you've wasted + Wings of your youth; + Divined, and tasted + Bitter springs of truth. + + From sand unslaked + Twisted strong cords, + And wandered naked + Among trysted swords. + + There's a word unspoken, + A knot untied. + Whatever is broken + The earth may hide. + + The road was jagged + Over sharp stones: + Your body's too ragged + To cover your bones. + + The wind scatters + Tears upon dust; + Your soul's in tatters + Where the spears thrust. + + Your race is ended-- + See, it is run: + Nothing is mended + Under the sun. + + Straight as an arrow + You fall to a sleep + Not too narrow + And not too deep. + + + + + BLOOD FEUD + + + Once, when my husband was a child, there came + To his father's table, one who called him kin, + In sunbleached corduroys paler than his skin. + His look was grave and kind; he bore the name + Of the dead singer of Senlac, and his smile. + Shyly and courteously he smiled and spoke; + "I've been in the laurel since the winter broke; + Four months, I reckon; yes, sir, quite a while." + + He'd killed a score of foemen in the past, + In some blood-feud, a dark and monstrous thing; + To him it seemed his duty. At the last + His enemies found him by a forest spring, + Which, as he died, lay bright beneath his head, + A silver shield that slowly turned to red. + + + + + SEA LULLABY + + + The old moon is tarnished + With smoke of the flood, + The dead leaves are varnished + With color like blood, + + A treacherous smiler + With teeth white as milk, + A savage beguiler + In sheathings of silk, + + The sea creeps to pillage, + She leaps on her prey; + A child of the village + Was murdered to-day. + + She came up to meet him + In a smooth golden cloak, + She choked him and beat him + To death, for a joke. + + Her bright locks were tangled, + She shouted for joy, + With one hand she strangled + A strong little boy. + + Now in silence she lingers + Beside him all night + To wash her long fingers + In silvery light. + + + + + NANCY + + + You are a rose, but set with sharpest spine; + You are a pretty bird that pecks at me; + You are a little squirrel on a tree, + Pelting me with the prickly fruit of the pine; + A diamond, torn from a crystal mine, + Not like that milky treasure of the sea + A smooth, translucent pearl, but skilfully + Carven to cut, and faceted to shine. + + If you are flame, it dances and burns blue; + If you are light, it pierces like a star + Intenser than a needlepoint of ice. + The dexterous touch that shaped the soul of you, + Mingled, to mix, and make you what you are, + Magic between the sugar and the spice. + + + + + A PROUD LADY + + + Hate in the world's hand + Can carve and set its seal + Like the strong blast of sand + Which cuts into steel. + + I have seen how the finger of hate + Can mar and mold + Faces burned passionate + And frozen cold. + + Sorrowful faces worn + As stone with rain, + Faces writhing with scorn + And sullen with pain. + + But you have a proud face + Which the world cannot harm, + You have turned the pain to a grace + And the scorn to a charm. + + You have taken the arrows and slings + Which prick and bruise + And fashioned them into wings + For the heels of your shoes. + + From the world's hand which tries + To tear you apart + You have stolen the falcon's eyes + And the lion's heart. + + What has it done, this world, + With hard finger tips, + But sweetly chiseled and curled + Your inscrutable lips? + + + + + THE TORTOISE IN ETERNITY + + + Within my house of patterned horn + I sleep in such a bed + As men may keep before they're born + And after they are dead. + + Sticks and stones may break their bones, + And words may make them bleed; + There is not one of them who owns + An armor to his need. + + Tougher than hide or lozenged bark, + Snow-storm and thunder proof, + And quick with sun, and thick with dark, + Is this my darling roof. + + Men's troubled dreams of death and birth + Pulse mother-o'-pearl to black; + I bear the rainbow bubble Earth + Square on my scornful back. + + + + + INCANTATION + + + A white well + In a black cave; + A bright shell + In a dark wave. + + A white rose + Black brambles hood; + Smooth bright snows + In a dark wood. + + A flung white glove + In a dark fight; + A white dove + On a wild black night. + + A white door + In a dark lane; + A bright core + To bitter black pain. + + A white hand + Waved from dark walls; + In a burnt black land + Bright waterfalls. + + A bright spark + Where black ashes are; + In the smothering dark + One white star. + + + + + SILVER FILIGREE + + + The icicles wreathing + On trees in festoon + Swing, swayed to our breathing: + They're made of the moon. + + She's a pale, waxen taper; + And these seem to drip + Transparent as paper + From the flame of her tip. + + Molten, smoking a little, + Into crystal they pass; + Falling, freezing, to brittle + And delicate glass. + + Each a sharp-pointed flower, + Each a brief stalactite + Which hangs for an hour + In the blue cave of night. + + + + + THE FALCON + + + Why should my sleepy heart be taught + To whistle mocking-bird replies? + This is another bird you've caught, + Soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes. + + The bird Imagination, + That flies so far, that dies so soon; + Her wings are colored like the sun, + Her breast is colored like the moon. + + Weave her a chain of silver twist, + And a little hood of scarlet wool, + And let her perch upon your wrist, + And tell her she is beautiful. + + + + + BRONZE TRUMPETS AND SEA WATER-- + ON TURNING LATIN INTO ENGLISH + + + Alembics turn to stranger things + Strange things, but never while we live + Shall magic turn this bronze that sings + To singing water in a sieve. + + The trumpeters of Caesar's guard + Salute his rigorous bastions + With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard + Though there is silver in the bronze. + + Our mutable tongue is like the sea, + Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit; + Dangle in strings of sand shall be + Who smooths the ripples out of it. + + + + + SPRING PASTORAL + + + Liza, go steep your long white hands + In the cool waters of that spring + Which bubbles up through shiny sands + The color of a wild-dove's wing. + + Dabble your hands, and steep them well + Until those nails are pearly white + Now rosier than a laurel bell; + Then come to me at candle-light. + + Lay your cold hands across my brows, + And I shall sleep, and I shall dream + Of silver-pointed willow boughs + Dipping their fingers in a stream. + + + + + VELVET SHOES + + + Let us walk in the white snow + In a soundless space; + With footsteps quiet and slow, + At a tranquil pace, + Under veils of white lace. + + I shall go shod in silk, + And you in wool, + White as a white cow's milk, + More beautiful + Than the breast of a gull. + + We shall walk through the still town + In a windless peace; + We shall step upon white down, + Upon silver fleece, + Upon softer than these. + + We shall walk in velvet shoes: + Wherever we go + Silence will fall like dews + On white silence below. + We shall walk in the snow. + + + + + VALENTINE + + + Too high, too high to pluck + My heart shall swing. + A fruit no bee shall suck, + No wasp shall sting. + + If on some night of cold + It falls to ground + In apple-leaves of gold + I'll wrap it round. + + And I shall seal it up + With spice and salt, + In a carven silver cup, + In a deep vault. + + Before my eyes are blind + And my lips mute, + I must eat core and rind + Of that same fruit. + + Before my heart is dust + At the end of all, + Eat it I must, I must + Were it bitter gall. + + But I shall keep it sweet + By some strange art; + Wild honey I shall eat + When I eat my heart. + + O honey cool and chaste + As clover's breath! + Sweet Heaven I shall taste + Before my death. + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Nets to Catch the Wind, by Elinor Wylie + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NETS TO CATCH THE WIND *** + +***** This file should be named 6682.txt or 6682.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/6/8/6682/ + +Produced by Suzanne L. 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