Alice Corbin

O world that changes under my hand,O brown world, bitter and bright,And full of hidden recessesOf love and light—O world, what use would there be to meOf power beyond powerTo change, or establish new balance,To build, or deflower?O world, what use would there be?Had I the Creator’s fire,I could not build you nearerTo my heart’s desire!

O world that changes under my hand,O brown world, bitter and bright,And full of hidden recessesOf love and light—

O world that changes under my hand,

O brown world, bitter and bright,

And full of hidden recesses

Of love and light—

O world, what use would there be to meOf power beyond powerTo change, or establish new balance,To build, or deflower?

O world, what use would there be to me

Of power beyond power

To change, or establish new balance,

To build, or deflower?

O world, what use would there be?Had I the Creator’s fire,I could not build you nearerTo my heart’s desire!

O world, what use would there be?

Had I the Creator’s fire,

I could not build you nearer

To my heart’s desire!

There is a country full of wineAnd liquor of the sun,Where sap is running all the year,And spring is never done,Where all is good as it is fair,And love and will are one.Old age may never come there,But ever in to-dayThe people talk as in a dreamAnd laugh slow time away.But would you stay as now you are,Or as a year ago?Oh, not as then, for then how smallThe wisdom we did owe!Or if forever as to-day,How little we could know!Then welcome age, and fear not sorrow;To-day’s no better than to-morrow,Or yesterday that flies.By the low light in your eyes,By the love that in me lies,I know we grow more lovelyGrowing wise.

There is a country full of wine

And liquor of the sun,

Where sap is running all the year,

And spring is never done,

Where all is good as it is fair,

And love and will are one.

Old age may never come there,

But ever in to-day

The people talk as in a dream

And laugh slow time away.

But would you stay as now you are,Or as a year ago?Oh, not as then, for then how smallThe wisdom we did owe!Or if forever as to-day,How little we could know!

But would you stay as now you are,

Or as a year ago?

Oh, not as then, for then how small

The wisdom we did owe!

Or if forever as to-day,

How little we could know!

Then welcome age, and fear not sorrow;To-day’s no better than to-morrow,Or yesterday that flies.By the low light in your eyes,By the love that in me lies,I know we grow more lovelyGrowing wise.

Then welcome age, and fear not sorrow;

To-day’s no better than to-morrow,

Or yesterday that flies.

By the low light in your eyes,

By the love that in me lies,

I know we grow more lovely

Growing wise.

LOVE ME AT LAST

Love me at last, or if you will not,Leave me;Hard words could never, as these half-words,Grieve me:Love me at last—or leave me.Love me at last, or let the last word utteredBe but your own;Love me, or leave me—as a cloud, a vapor,Or a bird flown.Love me at last—I am but sliding waterOver a stone.

Love me at last, or if you will not,Leave me;Hard words could never, as these half-words,Grieve me:Love me at last—or leave me.

Love me at last, or if you will not,

Leave me;

Hard words could never, as these half-words,

Grieve me:

Love me at last—or leave me.

Love me at last, or let the last word utteredBe but your own;Love me, or leave me—as a cloud, a vapor,Or a bird flown.Love me at last—I am but sliding waterOver a stone.

Love me at last, or let the last word uttered

Be but your own;

Love me, or leave me—as a cloud, a vapor,

Or a bird flown.

Love me at last—I am but sliding water

Over a stone.

To some the fat godsGive money,To some love;But the gods have given meMoneyandlove:Nottoo muchmoney,Norquite enoughlove!To some the fat godsGive money,To some love.

To some the fat godsGive money,To some love;

To some the fat gods

Give money,

To some love;

But the gods have given meMoneyandlove:

But the gods have given me

Moneyandlove:

Nottoo muchmoney,Norquite enoughlove!

Nottoo muchmoney,

Norquite enoughlove!

To some the fat godsGive money,To some love.

To some the fat gods

Give money,

To some love.

One city only, of all I have lived in,And one house of that city, belong to me ...I remember the mellow light of afternoonSlanting across brick buildings on the waterfront,And small boats at rest on the floating tide,And larger boats at rest in the near-by harbor;And I know the tidal smell, and the smell of mud,Uncovering oyster flats, and the brown bare toes of small negroesWith the mud oozing between them;And the little figures leaping from log to log,And the white children playing among them—I remember how I played among them.And I remember the recessed windows of the gloomy hallsIn the darkness of decaying grandeur,The feel of cool linen in the cavernous bed,And the window curtain swaying gentlyIn the night air;All the half-hushed noises of the streetIn the southern town,And the thrill of life—Like a hand in the darkWith its felt, indeterminate meaning:I remember that I knew there the stirring of passion,Fear, and the knowledge of sin,Tragedy, laughter, death....And I remember, too, on a dead Sunday afternoonIn the twilight,When there was no one else in the house,My self suddenly separated itselfAnd left me alone,So that the world lay about me, lifeless.I could not touch it, or feel it, or see it;Yet I was there.The sensation lingers:Only the most vital threadsHold me at all to living ...Yet I only live truly when I think of that house;Only enter then into being.One city only of all I have lived in,And one house of that city, belong to me.

One city only, of all I have lived in,

And one house of that city, belong to me ...

I remember the mellow light of afternoon

Slanting across brick buildings on the waterfront,

And small boats at rest on the floating tide,

And larger boats at rest in the near-by harbor;

And I know the tidal smell, and the smell of mud,

Uncovering oyster flats, and the brown bare toes of small negroes

With the mud oozing between them;

And the little figures leaping from log to log,

And the white children playing among them—

I remember how I played among them.

And I remember the recessed windows of the gloomy halls

In the darkness of decaying grandeur,

The feel of cool linen in the cavernous bed,

And the window curtain swaying gently

In the night air;

All the half-hushed noises of the street

In the southern town,

And the thrill of life—

Like a hand in the dark

With its felt, indeterminate meaning:

I remember that I knew there the stirring of passion,

Fear, and the knowledge of sin,

Tragedy, laughter, death....

And I remember, too, on a dead Sunday afternoonIn the twilight,When there was no one else in the house,My self suddenly separated itselfAnd left me alone,So that the world lay about me, lifeless.I could not touch it, or feel it, or see it;Yet I was there.The sensation lingers:Only the most vital threadsHold me at all to living ...Yet I only live truly when I think of that house;Only enter then into being.One city only of all I have lived in,And one house of that city, belong to me.

And I remember, too, on a dead Sunday afternoon

In the twilight,

When there was no one else in the house,

My self suddenly separated itself

And left me alone,

So that the world lay about me, lifeless.

I could not touch it, or feel it, or see it;

Yet I was there.

The sensation lingers:

Only the most vital threads

Hold me at all to living ...

Yet I only live truly when I think of that house;

Only enter then into being.

One city only of all I have lived in,

And one house of that city, belong to me.

IA thin gray shadow on the edge of thoughtHiding its wounds:These are the wounds of sorrow—It was my hand that made them;And this gray shadow that resembles youIs my own heart, weeping ...You sleep quietly beneath the shadeOf willows in the south.IIWhen the cold dawn stood above the house-tops,Too late I remembered the cryIn the night of a wild bird flyingThrough the rain-filled sky.

A thin gray shadow on the edge of thoughtHiding its wounds:These are the wounds of sorrow—It was my hand that made them;And this gray shadow that resembles youIs my own heart, weeping ...You sleep quietly beneath the shadeOf willows in the south.

A thin gray shadow on the edge of thought

Hiding its wounds:

These are the wounds of sorrow—

It was my hand that made them;

And this gray shadow that resembles you

Is my own heart, weeping ...

You sleep quietly beneath the shade

Of willows in the south.

When the cold dawn stood above the house-tops,Too late I remembered the cryIn the night of a wild bird flyingThrough the rain-filled sky.

When the cold dawn stood above the house-tops,

Too late I remembered the cry

In the night of a wild bird flying

Through the rain-filled sky.

Do you remember the dark pool at Nîmes,The pool that had no bottom?Shadowed by Druids ere the Romans came—Dark, still, with little bubbles risingSo quietly level with its rim of stoneThat one stood shuddering with the breathless fearOf one short step?My little sister stood beside the poolAs dark as that of Nîmes.I saw her white face as she took the plunge;I could not follow her, although I tried.The silver bubbles circled to the brink,And then the water parted:With dream-white face my little sister roseDripping from that dark pool, and took the handsOutstretched to meet her.I may not speak to her of all she’s seen;She may not speak to me of all she knows,Because her words mean nothing:She chooses themAs one to whom our language is quite strange,As children make queer words with lettered blocksBefore they know the way....My little sister stood beside the pool—I could not plunge in with her, though I tried.

Do you remember the dark pool at Nîmes,

The pool that had no bottom?

Shadowed by Druids ere the Romans came—

Dark, still, with little bubbles rising

So quietly level with its rim of stone

That one stood shuddering with the breathless fear

Of one short step?

My little sister stood beside the poolAs dark as that of Nîmes.I saw her white face as she took the plunge;I could not follow her, although I tried.The silver bubbles circled to the brink,And then the water parted:With dream-white face my little sister roseDripping from that dark pool, and took the handsOutstretched to meet her.

My little sister stood beside the pool

As dark as that of Nîmes.

I saw her white face as she took the plunge;

I could not follow her, although I tried.

The silver bubbles circled to the brink,

And then the water parted:

With dream-white face my little sister rose

Dripping from that dark pool, and took the hands

Outstretched to meet her.

I may not speak to her of all she’s seen;She may not speak to me of all she knows,Because her words mean nothing:She chooses themAs one to whom our language is quite strange,As children make queer words with lettered blocksBefore they know the way....

I may not speak to her of all she’s seen;

She may not speak to me of all she knows,

Because her words mean nothing:

She chooses them

As one to whom our language is quite strange,

As children make queer words with lettered blocks

Before they know the way....

My little sister stood beside the pool—I could not plunge in with her, though I tried.

My little sister stood beside the pool—

I could not plunge in with her, though I tried.

The ancient songsPass deathward mournfully.R. A.

The ancient songs

Pass deathward mournfully.

R. A.

The old songsDie.Yes, the old songs die.Cold lips that sang them,Cold lips that sang them—The old songs die,And the lips that sang themAre only a pinch of dust.I saw in PamplonaIn a musty museum—I saw in PamplonaIn a buff-colored museum—I saw in PamplonaA memorialOf the dead violinist;I saw in PamplonaA memorialOf Pablo Sarasate.Dust was inch-deep on the cases,Dust on the stick-pins and satins,Dust on the badges and orders,On the wreath from the oak of Guernica!The old songsDie—And the lips that sang them.Wreaths, withered and dusty,Cuff-buttons with royal insignia,These, in a musty museum,Are all that is left of Sarasate.

The old songsDie.Yes, the old songs die.Cold lips that sang them,Cold lips that sang them—The old songs die,And the lips that sang themAre only a pinch of dust.

The old songs

Die.

Yes, the old songs die.

Cold lips that sang them,

Cold lips that sang them—

The old songs die,

And the lips that sang them

Are only a pinch of dust.

I saw in PamplonaIn a musty museum—I saw in PamplonaIn a buff-colored museum—I saw in PamplonaA memorialOf the dead violinist;I saw in PamplonaA memorialOf Pablo Sarasate.

I saw in Pamplona

In a musty museum—

I saw in Pamplona

In a buff-colored museum—

I saw in Pamplona

A memorial

Of the dead violinist;

I saw in Pamplona

A memorial

Of Pablo Sarasate.

Dust was inch-deep on the cases,Dust on the stick-pins and satins,Dust on the badges and orders,On the wreath from the oak of Guernica!

Dust was inch-deep on the cases,

Dust on the stick-pins and satins,

Dust on the badges and orders,

On the wreath from the oak of Guernica!

The old songsDie—And the lips that sang them.Wreaths, withered and dusty,Cuff-buttons with royal insignia,These, in a musty museum,Are all that is left of Sarasate.

The old songs

Die—

And the lips that sang them.

Wreaths, withered and dusty,

Cuff-buttons with royal insignia,

These, in a musty museum,

Are all that is left of Sarasate.

What dim Arcadian pasturesHave I knownThat suddenly, out of nothing,A wind is blown,Lifting a veil and a darkness,Showing a purple sea—And under your hair the faun’s eyesLook out on me?

What dim Arcadian pastures

Have I known

That suddenly, out of nothing,

A wind is blown,

Lifting a veil and a darkness,

Showing a purple sea—

And under your hair the faun’s eyes

Look out on me?

The endless, foolish merriment of starsBeside the pale cold sorrow of the moon,Is like the wayward noises of the worldBeside my heart’s uplifted silent tune.The little broken glitter of the wavesBeside the golden sun’s intense white blaze,Is like the idle chatter of the crowdBeside my heart’s unwearied song of praise.The sun and all the planets in the skyBeside the sacred wonder of dim space,Are notes upon a broken, tarnished luteThat God will someday mend and put in place.And space, beside the little secret joyOf God that sings forever in the clay,Is smaller than the dust we can not see,That yet dies not, till time and space decay.And as the foolish merriment of starsBeside the cold pale sorrow of the moon,My little song, my little joy, my praise,Beside God’s ancient, everlasting rune.

The endless, foolish merriment of starsBeside the pale cold sorrow of the moon,Is like the wayward noises of the worldBeside my heart’s uplifted silent tune.

The endless, foolish merriment of stars

Beside the pale cold sorrow of the moon,

Is like the wayward noises of the world

Beside my heart’s uplifted silent tune.

The little broken glitter of the wavesBeside the golden sun’s intense white blaze,Is like the idle chatter of the crowdBeside my heart’s unwearied song of praise.

The little broken glitter of the waves

Beside the golden sun’s intense white blaze,

Is like the idle chatter of the crowd

Beside my heart’s unwearied song of praise.

The sun and all the planets in the skyBeside the sacred wonder of dim space,Are notes upon a broken, tarnished luteThat God will someday mend and put in place.

The sun and all the planets in the sky

Beside the sacred wonder of dim space,

Are notes upon a broken, tarnished lute

That God will someday mend and put in place.

And space, beside the little secret joyOf God that sings forever in the clay,Is smaller than the dust we can not see,That yet dies not, till time and space decay.

And space, beside the little secret joy

Of God that sings forever in the clay,

Is smaller than the dust we can not see,

That yet dies not, till time and space decay.

And as the foolish merriment of starsBeside the cold pale sorrow of the moon,My little song, my little joy, my praise,Beside God’s ancient, everlasting rune.

And as the foolish merriment of stars

Beside the cold pale sorrow of the moon,

My little song, my little joy, my praise,

Beside God’s ancient, everlasting rune.

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