SIX SONGS OF KHALIDINE
To the Memory of Mary Pyne
To the Memory of Mary Pyne
To the Memory of Mary Pyne
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creepUpon your body that denies the gloomAnd feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consumeThe cold precision of your austere sleep—And all night long I beat it back, and weep.It is not gentleness but mad despairThat sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine,Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseenWe call our soul. Yet thick within our hairThe dusty ashes that our days prepare.The dark comes up, my little love, and dyesYour fallen lids with stain of ebony,And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and mePulling thin blindness down across our eyes—And far within the vale a lost bird cries.Does not the wind moan round your painted towersLike rats within an empty granary?The clapper lost, and long blown out to seaYour windy doves. And here the black bat cowersAgainst your clock that never strikes the hours.And now I say, has not the mountain’s baseHere trembled long ago unto the cry“I love you, ah, I love you!” Now we dieAnd lay, all silent, to the earth our face.Shall that cast out the echo of this place?Has not one in the dark funerealHeard foot-fall fearful, born of no man’s tread,And felt the wings of death, though no wing spreadAnd on his cheek a tear, though no tear fell—And a voice saying without breath “Farewell!”
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creepUpon your body that denies the gloomAnd feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consumeThe cold precision of your austere sleep—And all night long I beat it back, and weep.It is not gentleness but mad despairThat sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine,Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseenWe call our soul. Yet thick within our hairThe dusty ashes that our days prepare.The dark comes up, my little love, and dyesYour fallen lids with stain of ebony,And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and mePulling thin blindness down across our eyes—And far within the vale a lost bird cries.Does not the wind moan round your painted towersLike rats within an empty granary?The clapper lost, and long blown out to seaYour windy doves. And here the black bat cowersAgainst your clock that never strikes the hours.And now I say, has not the mountain’s baseHere trembled long ago unto the cry“I love you, ah, I love you!” Now we dieAnd lay, all silent, to the earth our face.Shall that cast out the echo of this place?Has not one in the dark funerealHeard foot-fall fearful, born of no man’s tread,And felt the wings of death, though no wing spreadAnd on his cheek a tear, though no tear fell—And a voice saying without breath “Farewell!”
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creepUpon your body that denies the gloomAnd feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consumeThe cold precision of your austere sleep—And all night long I beat it back, and weep.
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creep
Upon your body that denies the gloom
And feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consume
The cold precision of your austere sleep—
And all night long I beat it back, and weep.
It is not gentleness but mad despairThat sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine,Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseenWe call our soul. Yet thick within our hairThe dusty ashes that our days prepare.
It is not gentleness but mad despair
That sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine,
Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseen
We call our soul. Yet thick within our hair
The dusty ashes that our days prepare.
The dark comes up, my little love, and dyesYour fallen lids with stain of ebony,And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and mePulling thin blindness down across our eyes—And far within the vale a lost bird cries.
The dark comes up, my little love, and dyes
Your fallen lids with stain of ebony,
And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and me
Pulling thin blindness down across our eyes—
And far within the vale a lost bird cries.
Does not the wind moan round your painted towersLike rats within an empty granary?The clapper lost, and long blown out to seaYour windy doves. And here the black bat cowersAgainst your clock that never strikes the hours.
Does not the wind moan round your painted towers
Like rats within an empty granary?
The clapper lost, and long blown out to sea
Your windy doves. And here the black bat cowers
Against your clock that never strikes the hours.
And now I say, has not the mountain’s baseHere trembled long ago unto the cry“I love you, ah, I love you!” Now we dieAnd lay, all silent, to the earth our face.Shall that cast out the echo of this place?
And now I say, has not the mountain’s base
Here trembled long ago unto the cry
“I love you, ah, I love you!” Now we die
And lay, all silent, to the earth our face.
Shall that cast out the echo of this place?
Has not one in the dark funerealHeard foot-fall fearful, born of no man’s tread,And felt the wings of death, though no wing spreadAnd on his cheek a tear, though no tear fell—And a voice saying without breath “Farewell!”
Has not one in the dark funereal
Heard foot-fall fearful, born of no man’s tread,
And felt the wings of death, though no wing spread
And on his cheek a tear, though no tear fell—
And a voice saying without breath “Farewell!”