Florence Wilkinson

They in the darkness gather and askHer name, the mistress of their endless task.The ToilersTinsel-makers in factory gloom,Miners in ethylene pits,Divers and druggists mixing poisonous bloom;Huge hunters, men of brawn,Half-naked creatures of the tropics,Furred trappers stealing forth at Labrador dawn;Catchers of beetles, sheep-men in bleak sheds,Pearl-fishers perched on Indian coasts,Children in stifling towers pulling threads;Dark bunchy women pricking intricate laces,Myopic jewelers’ apprentices,Arabs who chase the long-legged birds in sandy places:They are her invisible slaves,The genii of her costly wishes,Climbing, descending, running under waves.They strip earth’s dimmest cell,They burn and drown and stifleTo build her inconceivable and fragile shell.The Artist-ArtisansThey have painted a miracle-shawlOf cobwebs and whispering shadows,And trellised leaves that ripple on a wall.They have broidered a tissue of cost,Spun foam of the seaAnd lilied imagery of the vanishing frost.Her floating skirts have runLike iridescent marshes,Or like the tossed hair of a stormy sun.Her silver cloak has shoneBlue as a mummy’s beads,Green as the ice-glints of an Arctic zone.She is weary and has lainAt last her body down.What, with her clothing’s beauty, they have slain!The Angel With the SwordCome, brothers, let us liftHer pitiful body on high,Her tight-shut hands that take to heaven no giftBut ashes of costly things.We seven archangels willBear her in silence on our flame-tipped wings.The ToilersLo, she is thinner than fireOn a burned mill-town’s edge,And smaller than a young child’s dead desire.Yea, emptier than the wageOf a spent harlot crying for her beauty,And grayer than the mumbling lips of age.A Lost GirlWhite as a drowned one’s feetTwined with the wet sea-bracken,And naked as a Sin driven from God’s littlest street.

They in the darkness gather and askHer name, the mistress of their endless task.

They in the darkness gather and ask

Her name, the mistress of their endless task.

The Toilers

Tinsel-makers in factory gloom,Miners in ethylene pits,Divers and druggists mixing poisonous bloom;

Tinsel-makers in factory gloom,

Miners in ethylene pits,

Divers and druggists mixing poisonous bloom;

Huge hunters, men of brawn,Half-naked creatures of the tropics,Furred trappers stealing forth at Labrador dawn;

Huge hunters, men of brawn,

Half-naked creatures of the tropics,

Furred trappers stealing forth at Labrador dawn;

Catchers of beetles, sheep-men in bleak sheds,Pearl-fishers perched on Indian coasts,Children in stifling towers pulling threads;

Catchers of beetles, sheep-men in bleak sheds,

Pearl-fishers perched on Indian coasts,

Children in stifling towers pulling threads;

Dark bunchy women pricking intricate laces,Myopic jewelers’ apprentices,Arabs who chase the long-legged birds in sandy places:

Dark bunchy women pricking intricate laces,

Myopic jewelers’ apprentices,

Arabs who chase the long-legged birds in sandy places:

They are her invisible slaves,The genii of her costly wishes,Climbing, descending, running under waves.

They are her invisible slaves,

The genii of her costly wishes,

Climbing, descending, running under waves.

They strip earth’s dimmest cell,They burn and drown and stifleTo build her inconceivable and fragile shell.

They strip earth’s dimmest cell,

They burn and drown and stifle

To build her inconceivable and fragile shell.

The Artist-Artisans

They have painted a miracle-shawlOf cobwebs and whispering shadows,And trellised leaves that ripple on a wall.

They have painted a miracle-shawl

Of cobwebs and whispering shadows,

And trellised leaves that ripple on a wall.

They have broidered a tissue of cost,Spun foam of the seaAnd lilied imagery of the vanishing frost.

They have broidered a tissue of cost,

Spun foam of the sea

And lilied imagery of the vanishing frost.

Her floating skirts have runLike iridescent marshes,Or like the tossed hair of a stormy sun.

Her floating skirts have run

Like iridescent marshes,

Or like the tossed hair of a stormy sun.

Her silver cloak has shoneBlue as a mummy’s beads,Green as the ice-glints of an Arctic zone.

Her silver cloak has shone

Blue as a mummy’s beads,

Green as the ice-glints of an Arctic zone.

She is weary and has lainAt last her body down.What, with her clothing’s beauty, they have slain!

She is weary and has lain

At last her body down.

What, with her clothing’s beauty, they have slain!

The Angel With the Sword

Come, brothers, let us liftHer pitiful body on high,Her tight-shut hands that take to heaven no giftBut ashes of costly things.We seven archangels willBear her in silence on our flame-tipped wings.

Come, brothers, let us lift

Her pitiful body on high,

Her tight-shut hands that take to heaven no gift

But ashes of costly things.

We seven archangels will

Bear her in silence on our flame-tipped wings.

The Toilers

Lo, she is thinner than fireOn a burned mill-town’s edge,And smaller than a young child’s dead desire.

Lo, she is thinner than fire

On a burned mill-town’s edge,

And smaller than a young child’s dead desire.

Yea, emptier than the wageOf a spent harlot crying for her beauty,And grayer than the mumbling lips of age.

Yea, emptier than the wage

Of a spent harlot crying for her beauty,

And grayer than the mumbling lips of age.

A Lost Girl

White as a drowned one’s feetTwined with the wet sea-bracken,And naked as a Sin driven from God’s littlest street.

White as a drowned one’s feet

Twined with the wet sea-bracken,

And naked as a Sin driven from God’s littlest street.

John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau—’Twas Toussaint, just a year ago;Crimson and copper was the glowOf all the woods at Fontainebleau.They peered into that ancient well,And watched the slow torch as it fell.John gave the keeper two whole sous,And Jeanne that smile with which she woosJohn Brown to folly. So they loseThe Paris train. But never mind!—All-Saints are rustling in the wind,And there’s an inn, a crackling fire—(It’sdeux-cinquante, but Jeanne’s desire);There’s dinner, candles, country wine,Jeanne’s lips—philosophy divine!There was a bosquet at Saint CloudWherein John’s picture of her grewTo be a Salon masterpiece—Till the rain fell that would not cease.Through one long alley how they raced!—’Twas gold and brown, and all a wasteOf matted leaves, moss-interlaced.Shades of mad queens and hunter-kingsAnd thorn-sharp feet of dryad-thingsWere company to their wanderings;Then rain and darkness on them drew.The rich folks’ motors honked and flew.They hailed an old cab, heaven for two;The bright Champs-Elysées at last—Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.Paris, upspringing white and gold:Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolledWar-sculpture, big, Napoleonic—Fierce chargers, angels histrionic;The royal sweep of gardened spaces,The pomp and whirl of columned Places;TheRive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray;Theimpasseand the loved café;The tempting tidy little shops;The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops;Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays;Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.May—Robinson’s, the chestnut trees—Were ever crowds as gay as these?The quick pale waiters on a run,The round green tables, one by one,Hidden away in amorous bowers—Lilac, laburnum’s golden showers.Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard,And nightingales quite undeterred.And then that last extravagance—O Jeanne, a single amber glanceWill pay him!—“Let’s play millionaireFor just two hours—on princely fare,At some hotel where lovers dineA deuxand pledge across the wine!”They find a damask breakfast-room,Where stiff silk roses range their bloom.The garçon has a splendid wayOf bearing ingrand déjeuner.Then to be left alone, alone,High up above Rue Castiglione;Curtained away from all the rudeRumors, in silken solitude;And, John, her head upon your knees—Time waits for moments such as these.

John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau—

’Twas Toussaint, just a year ago;

Crimson and copper was the glow

Of all the woods at Fontainebleau.

They peered into that ancient well,

And watched the slow torch as it fell.

John gave the keeper two whole sous,

And Jeanne that smile with which she woos

John Brown to folly. So they lose

The Paris train. But never mind!—

All-Saints are rustling in the wind,

And there’s an inn, a crackling fire—

(It’sdeux-cinquante, but Jeanne’s desire);

There’s dinner, candles, country wine,

Jeanne’s lips—philosophy divine!

There was a bosquet at Saint Cloud

Wherein John’s picture of her grew

To be a Salon masterpiece—

Till the rain fell that would not cease.

Through one long alley how they raced!—

’Twas gold and brown, and all a waste

Of matted leaves, moss-interlaced.

Shades of mad queens and hunter-kings

And thorn-sharp feet of dryad-things

Were company to their wanderings;

Then rain and darkness on them drew.

The rich folks’ motors honked and flew.

They hailed an old cab, heaven for two;

The bright Champs-Elysées at last—

Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.

Paris, upspringing white and gold:Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolledWar-sculpture, big, Napoleonic—Fierce chargers, angels histrionic;The royal sweep of gardened spaces,The pomp and whirl of columned Places;TheRive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray;Theimpasseand the loved café;The tempting tidy little shops;The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops;Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays;Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.

Paris, upspringing white and gold:

Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolled

War-sculpture, big, Napoleonic—

Fierce chargers, angels histrionic;

The royal sweep of gardened spaces,

The pomp and whirl of columned Places;

TheRive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray;

Theimpasseand the loved café;

The tempting tidy little shops;

The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops;

Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays;

Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.

May—Robinson’s, the chestnut trees—Were ever crowds as gay as these?The quick pale waiters on a run,The round green tables, one by one,Hidden away in amorous bowers—Lilac, laburnum’s golden showers.Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard,And nightingales quite undeterred.And then that last extravagance—O Jeanne, a single amber glanceWill pay him!—“Let’s play millionaireFor just two hours—on princely fare,At some hotel where lovers dineA deuxand pledge across the wine!”They find a damask breakfast-room,Where stiff silk roses range their bloom.The garçon has a splendid wayOf bearing ingrand déjeuner.Then to be left alone, alone,High up above Rue Castiglione;Curtained away from all the rudeRumors, in silken solitude;And, John, her head upon your knees—Time waits for moments such as these.

May—Robinson’s, the chestnut trees—

Were ever crowds as gay as these?

The quick pale waiters on a run,

The round green tables, one by one,

Hidden away in amorous bowers—

Lilac, laburnum’s golden showers.

Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard,

And nightingales quite undeterred.

And then that last extravagance—

O Jeanne, a single amber glance

Will pay him!—“Let’s play millionaire

For just two hours—on princely fare,

At some hotel where lovers dine

A deuxand pledge across the wine!”

They find a damask breakfast-room,

Where stiff silk roses range their bloom.

The garçon has a splendid way

Of bearing ingrand déjeuner.

Then to be left alone, alone,

High up above Rue Castiglione;

Curtained away from all the rude

Rumors, in silken solitude;

And, John, her head upon your knees—

Time waits for moments such as these.

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