Mary Aldis
You say I touch the barberriesAs a lover his mistress?What a curious fancy!One must be delicate, you know—They have bitter thorns.You say my hand is hurt?Oh no, it was my breast,It was crushed and pressed.I mean—why yes, of course, of course—There is a bright drop—isn’t there?—Right on my finger;Just the color of a barberry,But it comes from my heart.Do you love barberries?In the autumnWhen the sun’s desireTouches them to a glory of crimson and gold?I love them best then.There is something splendid about them:They are not afraidOf being warm and glad and bold;They flush joyously,Like a cheek under a lover’s kiss;They bleed cruellyLike a dagger wound in the breast;They flame up madly for their little hour,Knowing they must die.Do you love barberries?
You say I touch the barberriesAs a lover his mistress?What a curious fancy!One must be delicate, you know—They have bitter thorns.You say my hand is hurt?Oh no, it was my breast,It was crushed and pressed.I mean—why yes, of course, of course—There is a bright drop—isn’t there?—Right on my finger;Just the color of a barberry,But it comes from my heart.Do you love barberries?In the autumnWhen the sun’s desireTouches them to a glory of crimson and gold?I love them best then.There is something splendid about them:They are not afraidOf being warm and glad and bold;They flush joyously,Like a cheek under a lover’s kiss;They bleed cruellyLike a dagger wound in the breast;They flame up madly for their little hour,Knowing they must die.Do you love barberries?
You say I touch the barberriesAs a lover his mistress?What a curious fancy!One must be delicate, you know—They have bitter thorns.You say my hand is hurt?Oh no, it was my breast,It was crushed and pressed.I mean—why yes, of course, of course—There is a bright drop—isn’t there?—Right on my finger;Just the color of a barberry,But it comes from my heart.
You say I touch the barberries
As a lover his mistress?
What a curious fancy!
One must be delicate, you know—
They have bitter thorns.
You say my hand is hurt?
Oh no, it was my breast,
It was crushed and pressed.
I mean—why yes, of course, of course—
There is a bright drop—isn’t there?—
Right on my finger;
Just the color of a barberry,
But it comes from my heart.
Do you love barberries?In the autumnWhen the sun’s desireTouches them to a glory of crimson and gold?I love them best then.There is something splendid about them:They are not afraidOf being warm and glad and bold;They flush joyously,Like a cheek under a lover’s kiss;They bleed cruellyLike a dagger wound in the breast;They flame up madly for their little hour,Knowing they must die.Do you love barberries?
Do you love barberries?
In the autumn
When the sun’s desire
Touches them to a glory of crimson and gold?
I love them best then.
There is something splendid about them:
They are not afraid
Of being warm and glad and bold;
They flush joyously,
Like a cheek under a lover’s kiss;
They bleed cruelly
Like a dagger wound in the breast;
They flame up madly for their little hour,
Knowing they must die.
Do you love barberries?
WHEN YOU COME
“There was a girl with him for a time. She took him to her room when he was desolate and warmed him and took care of him. One day he could not find her. For many weeks he walked constantly in that locality in search of her.”—FromLife of Francis Thompson.
When you come tonightTo our small roomYou will look and listen—I shall not be there.You will cry out your dismayTo the unheeding gods;You will wait and look and listen—I shall not be there.There is a part of you I loveMore than your hands in mine at rest;There is a part of you I loveMore than your lips upon my breast.There is a part of you I woundEven in my caress;There is a part of you withheldI may not possess.There is a part of you I hate—Your need of meWhen you would be alone,Alone and free.When you come tonightTo our small roomYou will look and listen—I shall not be there.
When you come tonightTo our small roomYou will look and listen—I shall not be there.You will cry out your dismayTo the unheeding gods;You will wait and look and listen—I shall not be there.There is a part of you I loveMore than your hands in mine at rest;There is a part of you I loveMore than your lips upon my breast.There is a part of you I woundEven in my caress;There is a part of you withheldI may not possess.There is a part of you I hate—Your need of meWhen you would be alone,Alone and free.When you come tonightTo our small roomYou will look and listen—I shall not be there.
When you come tonightTo our small roomYou will look and listen—I shall not be there.
When you come tonight
To our small room
You will look and listen—
I shall not be there.
You will cry out your dismayTo the unheeding gods;You will wait and look and listen—I shall not be there.
You will cry out your dismay
To the unheeding gods;
You will wait and look and listen—
I shall not be there.
There is a part of you I loveMore than your hands in mine at rest;There is a part of you I loveMore than your lips upon my breast.
There is a part of you I love
More than your hands in mine at rest;
There is a part of you I love
More than your lips upon my breast.
There is a part of you I woundEven in my caress;There is a part of you withheldI may not possess.
There is a part of you I wound
Even in my caress;
There is a part of you withheld
I may not possess.
There is a part of you I hate—Your need of meWhen you would be alone,Alone and free.
There is a part of you I hate—
Your need of me
When you would be alone,
Alone and free.
When you come tonightTo our small roomYou will look and listen—I shall not be there.
When you come tonight
To our small room
You will look and listen—
I shall not be there.
FLASH-LIGHTS
ICandles toppling sideways in tomato cansSputter and sizzle at head and foot.The gaudy patterns of a patch-work quiltLie smooth and straightSave where upswelling over a silent shape.A man in high boots stirs something on a rusty stoveRound and round and round,As a new cry like a bleating lamb’sPierces his brain.After a time the man busies himselfWith hammer and nails and rough-hewn lumber,But fears to strike a blow.Outside the moonlight sleeps white upon the plainAnd the bark of a coyote shrills across the night.IIA smell of muskComes to him pungently through the darkness.On the screenScenes from foreign lands,Released by the censor,Shimmer in cool black and whiteHistoric information.He shifts his seat sideways, sideways—A seeking hand creeps to another hand,And a leaping flameIlluminates the historic information.IIIWithin the room, sounds of weepingLow and hushed:Without, a man, beautiful with the beautyOf young strength,Holds pitifully to the handle of the door.He hiccoughs and turns away,While a hand-organ plays,“The hours I spend with thee, dear heart.”
ICandles toppling sideways in tomato cansSputter and sizzle at head and foot.The gaudy patterns of a patch-work quiltLie smooth and straightSave where upswelling over a silent shape.A man in high boots stirs something on a rusty stoveRound and round and round,As a new cry like a bleating lamb’sPierces his brain.After a time the man busies himselfWith hammer and nails and rough-hewn lumber,But fears to strike a blow.Outside the moonlight sleeps white upon the plainAnd the bark of a coyote shrills across the night.IIA smell of muskComes to him pungently through the darkness.On the screenScenes from foreign lands,Released by the censor,Shimmer in cool black and whiteHistoric information.He shifts his seat sideways, sideways—A seeking hand creeps to another hand,And a leaping flameIlluminates the historic information.IIIWithin the room, sounds of weepingLow and hushed:Without, a man, beautiful with the beautyOf young strength,Holds pitifully to the handle of the door.He hiccoughs and turns away,While a hand-organ plays,“The hours I spend with thee, dear heart.”
I
I
Candles toppling sideways in tomato cansSputter and sizzle at head and foot.The gaudy patterns of a patch-work quiltLie smooth and straightSave where upswelling over a silent shape.A man in high boots stirs something on a rusty stoveRound and round and round,As a new cry like a bleating lamb’sPierces his brain.After a time the man busies himselfWith hammer and nails and rough-hewn lumber,But fears to strike a blow.Outside the moonlight sleeps white upon the plainAnd the bark of a coyote shrills across the night.
Candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
Sputter and sizzle at head and foot.
The gaudy patterns of a patch-work quilt
Lie smooth and straight
Save where upswelling over a silent shape.
A man in high boots stirs something on a rusty stove
Round and round and round,
As a new cry like a bleating lamb’s
Pierces his brain.
After a time the man busies himself
With hammer and nails and rough-hewn lumber,
But fears to strike a blow.
Outside the moonlight sleeps white upon the plain
And the bark of a coyote shrills across the night.
II
II
A smell of muskComes to him pungently through the darkness.On the screenScenes from foreign lands,Released by the censor,Shimmer in cool black and whiteHistoric information.He shifts his seat sideways, sideways—A seeking hand creeps to another hand,And a leaping flameIlluminates the historic information.
A smell of musk
Comes to him pungently through the darkness.
On the screen
Scenes from foreign lands,
Released by the censor,
Shimmer in cool black and white
Historic information.
He shifts his seat sideways, sideways—
A seeking hand creeps to another hand,
And a leaping flame
Illuminates the historic information.
III
III
Within the room, sounds of weepingLow and hushed:Without, a man, beautiful with the beautyOf young strength,Holds pitifully to the handle of the door.He hiccoughs and turns away,While a hand-organ plays,“The hours I spend with thee, dear heart.”
Within the room, sounds of weeping
Low and hushed:
Without, a man, beautiful with the beauty
Of young strength,
Holds pitifully to the handle of the door.
He hiccoughs and turns away,
While a hand-organ plays,
“The hours I spend with thee, dear heart.”