CLOSE your eyes, my love, let me make you blind;They have taught you to seeOnly a mean arithmetic on the face of things,A cunning algebra in the faces of men,And God like geometryCompleting his circles, and working cleverly.I'll kiss you over the eyes till I kiss you blind;If I can—if any one could.Then perhaps in the dark you'll have got what youwant to find.You've discovered so many bits, with your clevereyes,And I'm a kaleidoscopeThat you shake and shake, and yet it won't come toyour mind.Now stop carping at me.—But God, how I hate you!Do you fear I shall swindle you?Do you think if you take me as I am, that that willabate youSomehow?—so sad, so intrinsic, so spiritual, yet socautious, youMust have me all in your will and your consciousness—I hate you.
ROUND clouds roll in the arms of the wind,The round earth rolls in a clasp of blue sky,And see, where the budding hazels are thinned,The wild anemones lieIn undulating shivers beneath the wind.Over the blue of the waters plyWhite ducks, a living flotilla of cloud;And, look you, floating just thereby,The blue-gleamed drake stems proudLike Abraham, whose seed should multiply.In the lustrous gleam of the water, thereScramble seven toads across the silk, obscure leaves,Seven toads that meet in the dusk to shareThe darkness that interweavesThe sky and earth and water and live things everywhere.Look now, through the woods where the beech-greenspurtsLike a storm of emerald snow, look, seeA great bay stallion dances, skirtsThe bushes sumptuously,Going outward now in the spring to his brief deserts.Ah love, with your rich, warm face aglow,What sudden expectation opens youSo wide as you watch the catkins blowTheir dust from the birch on the blueLift of the pulsing wind—ah, tell me you know!Ah, surely! Ah, sure from the golden sunA quickening, masculine gleam floats in to allUs creatures, people and flowers undone,Lying open under his thrall,As he begets the year in us. What, then, would youshun?Why, I should think that from the earth there flyFine thrills to the neighbour stars, fine yellow beamsThrown lustily off from our full-blown, highBursting globe of dreams,To quicken the spheres that are virgin still in the sky.Do you not hear each morsel thrillWith joy at travelling to plant itself withinThe expectant one, therein to instilNew rapture, new shape to win,From the thick of life wake up another will?Surely, and if that I would spillThe vivid, ah, the fiery surplus of life,From off my brimming measure, to fillYou, and flush you rifeWith increase, do you call it evil, and always evil?
REJECT me not if I should say to youI do forget the sounding of your voice,I do forget your eyes that searching throughThe mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wideUnder the pallid moonlight's fingering,I see your blanched face at my breast, and hideMy eyes from diligent work, malingering.Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do drawThe blind to hide the garden, where the moonEnjoys the open blossoms as they strawTheir beauty for his taking, boon for boon.And I do lift my aching arms to you,And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,And I do weep for very pain of you,And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.And I do toss through the troubled night for you,Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,Feeling your strong breast carry me on intoThe peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.
THE shorn moon trembling indistinct on her path,Frail as a scar upon the pale blue sky,Draws towards the downward slope; some sorrowhathWorn her down to the quick, so she faintly faresAlong her foot-searched way without knowing whyShe creeps persistent down the sky's long stairs.Some say they see, though I have never seen,The dead moon heaped within the new moon's arms;For surely the fragile, fine young thing had beenToo heavily burdened to mount the heavens so.But my heart stands still, as a new, strong dreadalarmsMe; might a young girl be heaped with such shadowof woe?Since Death from the mother moon has pared usdown to the quick,And cast us forth like shorn, thin moons, to travelAn uncharted way among the myriad thickStrewn stars of silent people, and luminous litterOf lives which sorrows like mischievous dark micechavelTo nought, diminishing each star's glitter,Since Death has delivered us utterly, naked andwhite,Since the month of childhood is over, and we standalone,Since the beloved, faded moon that set us alightIs delivered from us and pays no heed though wemoanIn sorrow, since we stand in bewilderment, strangeAnd fearful to sally forth down the sky's long range.We may not cry to her still to sustain us here,We may not hold her shadow back from the dark.Oh, let us here forget, let us take the sheerUnknown that lies before us, bearing the arkOf the covenant onwards where she cannot go.Let us rise and leave her now, she will never know.
I WONDER if with you, as it is with me,If under your slipping words, that easily flowAbout you as a garment, easily,Your violent heart beats to and fro!Long have I waited, never once confessed,Even to myself, how bitter the separation;Now, being come again, how make the bestReparation?If I could cast this clothing off from me,If I could lift my naked self to you,Or if only you would repulse me, a wound would beGood; it would let the ache come through.But that you hold me still so kindly coldAloof my flaming heart will not allow;Yea, but I loathe you that you should withholdYour pleasure now.
THE earth again like a ship steams out of the darksea overThe edge of the blue, and the sun stands up to seeus glideSlowly into another day; slowly the roverVessel of darkness takes the rising tide.I, on the deck, am startled by this dawn confrontingMe who am issued amazed from the darkness,strippedAnd quailing here in the sunshine, delivered fromhauntingThe night unsounded whereon our days are shipped.Feeling myself undawning, the day's light playingupon me,I who am substance of shadow, I all compactOf the stuff of the night, finding myself all wronglyAmong the crowds of things in the sunshine jostledand racked.I with the night on my lips, I sigh with the silenceof death;And what do I care though the very stones shouldcry me unreal, though the cloudsShine in conceit of substance upon me, who am lessthan the rain.Do I not know the darkness within them? Whatare they but shrouds?The clouds go down the sky with a wealthy easeCasting a shadow of scorn upon me for my share indeath; but IHold my own in the midst of them, darkling, defyThe whole of the day to extinguish the shadow I lifton the breeze.Yea, though the very clouds have vantage overme,Enjoying their glancing flight, though my love isdead,I still am not homeless here, I've a tent by dayOf darkness where she sleeps on her perfect bed.And I know the host, the minute sparkling of darknessWhich vibrates untouched and virile through thegrandeur of night,But which, when dawn crows challenge, assaultingthe vivid motesOf living darkness, bursts fretfully, and is bright:Runs like a fretted arc-lamp into light,Stirred by conflict to shining, which elseWere dark and whole with the night.Runs to a fret of speed like a racing wheel,Which else were aslumber along with the wholeOf the dark, swinging rhythmic instead of a-reel.Is chafed to anger, bursts into rage like thunder;Which else were a silent grasp that held theheavensArrested, beating thick with wonder.Leaps like a fountain of blue sparks leapingIn a jet from out of obscurity,Which erst was darkness sleeping.Runs into streams of bright blue drops,Water and stones and stars, and myriadsOf twin-blue eyes, and cropsOf floury grain, and all the hosts of day,All lovely hosts of ripples caused by frettingThe Darkness into play.
SHE bade me follow to her garden, whereThe mellow sunlight stood as in a cupBetween the old grey walls; I did not dareTo raise my face, I did not dare look up,Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly inMy windows of discovery, and shrill "Sin."So with a downcast mien and laughing voiceI followed, followed the swing of her white dressThat rocked in a lilt along: I watched the poiseOf her feet as they flew for a space, then paused topressThe grass deep down with the royal burden of her:And gladly I'd offered my breast to the tread of her."I like to see," she said, and she crouched her down,She sunk into my sight like a settling bird;And her bosom couched in the confines of her gownLike heavy birds at rest there, softly stirredBy her measured breaths: "I like to see," said she,"The snap-dragon put out his tongue at me."She laughed, she reached her hand out to the flower,Closing its crimson throat. My own throat in herpowerStrangled, my heart swelled up so fullAs if it would burst its wine-skin in my throat,Choke me in my own crimson. I watched her pullThe gorge of the gaping flower, till the blood didfloatOver my eyes, and I was blind—Her large brown hand stretched overThe windows of my mind;And there in the dark I did discoverThings I was out to find:My Grail, a brown bowl twinedWith swollen veins that met in the wrist,Under whose brown the amethystI longed to taste. I longed to turnMy heart's red measure in her cup,I longed to feel my hot blood burnWith the amethyst in her cup.Then suddenly she looked up,And I was blind in a tawny-gold day,Till she took her eyes away.So she came down from aboveAnd emptied my heart of love.So I held my heart aloftTo the cuckoo that hung like a dove,And she settled softIt seemed that I and the morning worldWere pressed cup-shape to take this reiverBird who was weary to have furledHer wings in us,As we were weary to receive her.This bird, this rich,Sumptuous central grain,This mutable witch,This one refrain,This laugh in the fight,This clot of night,This core of delight.She spoke, and I closed my eyesTo shut hallucinations out.I echoed with surpriseHearing my mere lips shoutThe answer they did devise.Again I saw a brown bird hoverOver the flowers at my feet;I felt a brown bird hoverOver my heart, and sweetIts shadow lay on my heart.I thought I saw on the cloverA brown bee pulling apartThe closed flesh of the cloverAnd burrowing in its heart.She moved her hand, and againI felt the brown bird coverMy heart; and thenThe bird came down on my heart,As on a nest the roverCuckoo comes, and shoves overThe brim each careful partOf love, takes possession, and settles her down,With her wings and her feathers to drownThe nest in a heat of love.She turned her flushed face to me for the glintOf a moment. "See," she laughed, "if you alsoCan make them yawn." I put my hand to the dintIn the flower's throat, and the flower gaped widewith woe.She watched, she went of a sudden intensely still,She watched my hand, to see what I would fulfil.I pressed the wretched, throttled flower betweenMy fingers, till its head lay back, its fangsPoised at her. Like a weapon my hand was whiteand keen,And I held the choked flower-serpent in its pangsOf mordant anguish, till she ceased to laugh,Until her pride's flag, smitten, cleaved down to thestaff.She hid her face, she murmured between her lipsThe low word "Don't." I let the flower fall,But held my hand afloat towards the slipsOf blossom she fingered, and my fingers allPut forth to her: she did not move, nor I,For my hand like a snake watched hers, that couldnot fly.Then I laughed in the dark of my heart, I did exultLike a sudden chuckling of music. I bade her eyesMeet mine, I opened her helpless eyes to consultTheir fear, their shame, their joy that underliesDefeat in such a battle. In the dark of her eyesMy heart was fierce to make her laughter rise.Till her dark deeps shook with convulsive thrills, andthe darkOf her spirit wavered like water thrilled with light;And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its starkFervour within the pool of her twilight,Within her spacious soul, to grope in delight.And I do not care, though the large hands of revengeShall get my throat at last, shall get it soon,If the joy that they are searching to avengeHave risen red on my night as a harvest moon,Which even death can only put out for me;And death, I know, is better than not-to-be.
MOURNFULLY to and fro, to and fro the trees arewaving;What did you say, my dear?The rain-bruised leaves are suddenly shaken, as achildAsleep still shakes in the clutch of a sob—Yes, my love, I hear.One lonely bell, one only, the storm-tossed afternoonis braving,Why not let it ring?The roses lean down when they hear it, the tender,mildFlowers of the bleeding-heart fall to the throb—It is such a little thing!A wet bird walks on the lawn, call to the boy to comeand look,Yes, it is over now.Call to him out of the silence, call him to seeThe starling shaking its head as it walks in thegrass—Ah, who knows how?He cannot see it, I can never show it him, how itshook—Don't disturb him, darling.—Its head as it walked: I can never call him to me,Never, heisnot, whatever shall come to pass.No, look at the wet starling.
I LOOK at the swaling sunsetAnd wish I could go alsoThrough the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.I wish that I could goThrough the red doors where I could put offMy shame like shoes in the porch,My pain like garments,And leave my flesh discarded lyingLike luggage of some departed travellerGone one knows not where.Then I would turn round,And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,I would laugh with joy.
SINCE I lost you, my darling, the sky has come near,And I am of it, the small sharp stars are quite near,The white moon going among them like a white birdamong snow-berries,And the sound of her gently rustling in heaven likea bird I hear.And I am willing to come to you now, my dear,As a pigeon lets itself off from a cathedral domeTo be lost in the haze of the sky, I would like tocome,And be lost out of sight with you, and be gone likefoam.For I am tired, my dear, and if I could lift my feet,My tenacious feet from off the dome of the earthTo fall like a breath within the breathing windWhere you are lost, what rest, my love, what rest!
WHEN you went, how was it you carried with youMy missal book of fine, flamboyant hours?My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heapedBeyond the withering snow of the shorn fieldsStands rubble of stunted houses; all is reapedAnd garnered that the golden daylight yields.Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer amongThe shadowy stubble of the under-dusk,As farther off the scythe of night is swung,And little stars come rolling from their husk.And all the earth is gone into a dustOf greyness mingled with a fume of gold,Covered with aged lichens, pale with must,And all the sky has withered and gone cold.And so I sit and scan the book of grey,Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,All fearful lest I find the last words bleedingWith wounds of sunset and the dying day.
THE darkness steals the forms of all the queens,But oh, the palms of his two black hands are red,Inflamed with binding up the sheaves of deadHours that were once all glory and all queens.And I remember all the sunny hoursOf queens in hyacinth and skies of gold,And morning singing where the woods are scrolledAnd diapered above the chaunting flowers.Here lamps are white like snowdrops in the grass;The town is like a churchyard, all so stillAnd grey now night is here; nor willAnother torn red sunset come to pass.
OUT of the darkness, fretted sometimes in its sleeping,Jets of sparks in fountains of blue come leapingTo sight, revealing a secret, numberless secrets keeping.Sometimes the darkness trapped within a wheelRuns into speed like a dream, the blue of the steelShowing the rocking darkness now a-reel.And out of the invisible, streams of bright blue dropsRain from the showery heavens, and bright bluecropsSurge from the under-dark to their ladder-tops.And all the manifold blue and joyous eyes,The rainbow arching over in the skies,New sparks of wonder opening in surprise.All these pure things come foam and spray of the seaOf Darkness abundant, which shaken mysteriously,Breaks into dazzle of living, as dolphins that leapfrom the seaOf midnight shake it to fire, so the secret of deathwe see.