And Picus of Mirandola is dead; And all the gods they dreamed and fabled of, And through it all I see your pale Greek face; Makes me eager as a little child to love you, IMAGES I Like a gondola of green scented fruits Drifting along the dank canals at Venice, Have entered into my desolate city. The blue smoke leaps II Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing. III A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky IV A young beech-tree on the edge of a forest Stands still in the evening, Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air And seems to fear the stars: So are you still, and so tremble. V The red deer are high on the mountain, VI The flower which the wind has shaken CHORICOS The ancient songs Pass deathward mournfully. Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths, Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings Symbols of ancient songs Mournfully passing Down to the great white surges, Watched of none Save the frail sea-birds And the lithe pale girls, And the songs pass From the green land Which lies upon the waves as a leaf On the flowers of hyacinth; And they pass from the waters, The manifold winds and the dim moon. And they come, Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk, To the quiet level lands That she keeps for us all, That she wrought for us all for sleep In the silver days of the earth's dawningProserpina, daughter of Zeus. And we turn from the Kyprian's breasts, And we turn from thee, Phoibos Apollon, And we turn from the music of old And the hills that we loved and the meads, And we turn from the fiery day, And the lips that were over-sweet; For silently Brushing the fields with red-shod feet, With purple robe Searing the grass as with a sudden flame, Death, Thou hast come upon us. And of all the ancient songs Passing to the swallow-blue halls By the dark streams of Persephone, That in the end we turn to thee, We turn to thee, singing One last song. O Death, Thou art an healing wind That blowest over white flowers A-tremble with dew. Thou art a wind flowing Over far leagues of lonely sea. Thou art the dusk and the fragrance; Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling; Thou art the sad peace of one Satiate with old desires. Thou art the silence of beauty; And we look no more for the morning, We yearn no more for the sun, Since with thy white hands, Death, Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets, The slim colorless poppies Which in thy garden alone Softly thou gatherest. And silently, And with slow feet approaching, And with bowed head and unlit eyes, We kneel before thee. And thou, leaning toward us, Flowers from thy thin cold hands; Comes gently upon us. Mary Aldis BARBERRIES 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? 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 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: 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, 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."-From Life of Francis Thompson. When you come tonight To our small room You will 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 love More than your hands in mine at rest; There is a part of you I love More than your lips upon my breast. |