Let us build ritualFor our worship,Pledge our loveWith vows and holy promises.
If oaths are broken,Let it be darklyWith threatening gestures.
Thus we ignoreThat we love and dieLike insects.
I shall punish your blindnessWith a veil.
I shall choose words that joinGaily word to word,I shall weave them flauntinglyInto veil upon veil,
I shall wind them defiantlyOver my lips, over my eyes.
You shall not see your nameOn my lips,You shall not see your imageIn my eyes!
And through my veils I shall not seeThat you are blind.
I would be freeFrom two old superstitions,Thanks and Forgiveness.
So I would think of youAs Flame,As Wind,As Night,
To whom I have beenWind,And FlameAnd Night,
Together burned and swept,Now smotheredIn separate darkness.
I am dazed and wearyFrom the shapelessnessOf what I am—
I am pouredAmong haphazard stonesIn meaningless patterns.
Yesterday's sun dried meBetween rounded cobbles,Today's deluge sweeps meToward alien pavements,Tomorrow's sun shall dry meIn a new design.
Better the turbid gutterToward the open sea!
November's breathIs black in the branches of treesAnd under the bushes,
Harsh rainWhips down the rustling danceOf leaves.
There is smokeIn the throat of the wind,Its teethBite away beauty.
Let fools say:"SpringWill come again!"
Disillusion
I touch joy and it crumbles under my fingers—The dust from it rises and fills the world,It blinds my eyes—I cannot see the sun.A choking fog of dust shuts me apart.
I remember the sparkling wind on a bright autumn morning,I let down my hair and danced in the golden gale,Then chased the wind as the wind chased fallen leaves—Wind cannot be caught and tamed like a bird.
I touch joy and it crumbles to dust in my fingers.
November Afternoon
Upon our headsThe oak leaves fallLike silent benedictionsClosing Autumn's gorgeous ritual,And we, upborne by worship,Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills.
BelovedHow can I knowWhat gods are yours,How can I guess the visions of your spirit,Or hearThe silent prayers your heart has said?
Only by this I feelYour gods akin to mine,That when our lips have metOn this last golden Autumn afternoonThey have confessed in silenceOur kisses were less precious than our dreams.
Today, our passion drowned in beauty,We turn away our faces toward the hillsWhere purple haze, old incense,Spreads its veil.
Yareth at Solomon's Tomb
At lastYour search is at an end,King Solomon,
You, restless dreamer,For whom each face held promiseUnfulfilled,Whose hungry arms held many women,(Though none could fill your need)Who seized, but never loved,This is your sepulchre…
I who till todayQuestioned my heartNow find it buried with youIn this tomb;
So now I can forgive youThat you never believedMy love!
Argolis
Like sun on grassesWarming to lifeQuaint beetles, curious weeds,Till earth awakens, pregnant beneath its rays—So came the shepherds down to Argolis.
As nameless treesCast cloud-grey shadows thereOn moon-pale, tarnished snow,Till snow and shadow are lost,Alike confused and forgottenAmong the withered reeds—So lies their memory across its heart.
St. Faith's Eve
We stood together on a balconyAn hour when the nightDied into blankness,And light mistCurling beneath us, hid the earth,And the cold, unburied starsDrew further into space…
I turned to meet your eyesAnd sawLike a light, rosy veilYour flesh sink gently downLeaving only the simple skeletonAnd a white voice which said:"This still is I,Do you love meNow?"
Quietly, and without sadnessI looked upon you,For comfort blindly reached my soulAnd primitive beauty.Without passion, without fervour,I spoke at last:"Somehow FaithShines from your empty eye-holes,And TruthSpeaks mutely from your fleshless jaws.I choose your skeleton to lie withIn the peaceful bed of earthThrough all the dreamless, mornless, utter night!"
Poems of Elijah Hay
The Golden Stag
O hungry hearted ones, sharp-limbed, keen-eyed,Let me have place!I too would rideOn your fantastic chase.
Your hunger is a silver hunting horn,I heard it sweepThe frozen, peaceful morn:Its note bit me from sleep.
I will ride with you, hunters, even I,Toward a far hillTo see the golden stag against the skyUncaptured still.
To Anne Knish
Madam, you intrigue me!
I have come this farCautiously sneezingAlong the dusty highroad of convention,But now it leads no farther toward you.
TodayI have reached the cross roads—A weather-beaten sign-boardBlazons undecipherable wisdomOf which the arrow-heads, even,Have been effaced.
Eastward, it leads through cultivated fieldsOf intellectual fodder,Where well-fed cattle, herding together,Browse content:Are you of these?
Westward, is a lane, hedge-bordered,Shady, and of gentle indirection,In May, a bower of sentimental bloom,But this November weatherBetrays its destiny, the poultry yardWhere geese foregather.
And there ahead, the ancient, swampy wayModernized by a feeble plank or two:But the morass of passion lures me not!I see a vision of two plunging feet,Discreetly shod, yet struggling in vain—SlimeCreeps ankle-high, knee-high, thigh-high,Till all is swallowed save a brave silk hatFloating alone, a symbol of the creedI perished shedding.
Yet somewhere youIntelligent of my distressSmile, undisturbed—I have no pedlar's license to submit,No wares to cry, nor any gift to bring—I do not knowAnything new—In truth, then, what have I to do with you?
Yet, madam, you intrigue me!
Lolita
How curious to find in you, Lolita,The geishaWho sits and strums in the immortalAttitude of submission.There is a ledger in place of her soul!
Your shoulders sangFor admiration,Your hair wept for kisses,Your voice curved softly, a caress—You came among us as a suppliant,What had we you desired?
Bringing to market stolen goods,Holding to view used charms,Behold a hawker's spirit!
Eagles perch proudlyIn isolation,They swoop to seize a living prey—Crows hover to feed,Waiting with patience till the soul is fledLeaving a helpless body—carrion—(Vile thoughts obsess me!)
What did you want, Lolita?
Spectrum of Mrs. Q.
Fear not, beautiful lady,That I shall ravish you!Your arms are languorous lilies—There is not a thornIn all your slender greenness,And you are sweet to madden buzzing bees!
Fear not, beautiful lady,A hard, black cricketInspects you.
Epitaph
Courage is a sword,Honour, but a shield…Here lies a turtle.
A Sixpence
If I loved you,You would rearEight healthy childrenTo our love,(Forgetting me)And be happy.
But I do not love you,So you will writeEight hundred poemsTo our love,(Forgetting me)And be happy!
Three Spectra
Of Mrs. X.
You—Too well fed for rebellion,Too lazy for self-respect, too timid for murder,Disgracefully steal the trade-mark of the fairy-tale—"And they lived together happilyEver after!"
Of Mrs. Z.
Madam, you are ever retreating,But are neverGone—Some day I shall pursue youHoping to see youVanish.
Of Mrs. Andsoforth.
Old ladies, bless their hearts,Are contented as house-fliesDozing against the wall.But you,Imprisoned in the forties,Delirious, frenzied, helpless,Are a fly, drowning in a cocktail!
Two Commentaries
You are a gilded card-caseWhich I took for a purse.Your spirit's coin was squandered long ago,And in its placeAre white cards, all alike,Bearing a word,A name,Connoting nothing.
You are a raisin, but I am a nut!What meat there is to youCan be seen at a glance—(Seeds, when they exist, are bitter)My calm, round glossiness,(For I am sound and freeFrom wormy restlessness of spirit)Defies your casual inspection.
It takes sharp teethAnd some determinationTo taste my kernel!
A Womanly Woman
You sit, a snug, warm kittenBlinking through the windowAt a storm-haunted world—
Sleet wind caterwaulsThrough icy trees,Which clack their hands at youTauntingly.
Why should you leaveRadiator and rubber-plant?Do people stand at attention to mourn a heroWhen they beholdA frozen kittenIn a gutter?
Lolita Now Is Old
Lolita now is old,She sits in the park, watching the young men passAnd huddles her shawl against the cold.
One night last summer when the moon was red,Lolita, hearing an old song sungAnd amorous laughter down the streetLeft her bed—Lolita thought she was young.
With ancient finery on her back,A lace mantilla hiding her grey head,She crept into the warm and alien night.
Her trembling knees remembered the languid paceOf beauty on adventure bent—her fanWaved challenges with unforgotten grace.Cunningly she played her partFor to her peering ageLove was a well-remembered art.
Footsteps followed her—footsteps drew near!She dropped a rose—hush, he is here!There came hard arms and a panting kiss—
He felt the fraud of those withered lips,He cursed and spat—"Was it for this,You came, old woman, to the park?"Lolita gathered skirts and fledThrough the dim dark.
Lolita huddles her shawl against the cold,She sits and mumbles by the fire. In truthLolita knows she is old.
The Shining Bird
A bird is three things:Feathers, flight and song,And feathers are the least of these.
At last I hold her in my handsThe shining bird whose flight alongThe perilous rim of treesHas made my days adventurous, my spirit strong.
And now her wingsAre still—her vivid songBut ceaseless twitterings.
Her words are feathers, fallingLightly, relentlessly, and without rest,Revealing to my faceHer pinched and starveling breastLike poultry, dead and unashamedAnd naked in the market place.
A shattered flash of wings,A broken song,Echo and shine along the rim of trees.
The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere
Queen Guinevere,Three sleek and silent catsBring you gifts from me.
The first is a grey one,(I wanted a white one,I could not find one snowy white enough,Queen Guinevere,)He brings you purple grapes.
The second is a grey one,(I wanted a sleek one,Where could I find one sleek enough,Queen Guinevere?)He brings you a red apple.
The third one, too, is grey.(I wanted a black one,Not Hate itself could find one black enough,Queen Guinevere,)He brings you poison toadstools.
I send you three grey cats with gifts—(For uniformity of metaphor,Since Bacchus, Satan, and the HangmanAre not contemporaneous in my mythology)I send you three grey cats with gifts,Queen Guinevere,To warn you, sleekly, silentlyTo pay the forfeit.
Ode in the New Mode
Your faceWas a templeFrom which your soulCame to me beneath arched brows:And my soul knelt at your feet.
ThenInadvertentlyI saw your legCurved and turned like a bird-songDying into ecstatic silence at the garter…
WretchedWomen!When you are wholly lovelyMan cannot forget either of his two afflictions,Soul, or body!
Night
I opened the doorAnd night stared at me like a fool,Heavy dull night, clouded and safe—I turned again toward the uncertaintiesOf life within doors.
Once night was a lion,No, years ago, night was a pythonWeaving designs against spaceWith undulations of his being—Night was a siren once.
O sodden, middle-aged night!
End of Project Gutenberg's A Woman of Thirty, by Marjorie Allen Seiffert