Kitabı oku: «Gypsy Verses», sayfa 2

THE OLD WOMEN

 
We are very, very old,
We have had our day,
So we bend above our work
While the others play.
 
 
Do they call us women, we
Gaunt and grey and grim,
Hideous and sexless things
Weak of brain and limb?
 
 
Beauty ended, love long past,
Yet, when all else flees,
We are women, for we still
Have our memories.
 

TO HIPPOLYTUS

 
It is too late to part. I dreamed a dream
That love had loosed me, that no more your name
Should vex my soul, for very pride and shame
I hid you out of mind; I said, The stream
Has grown too wide between us, it would seem
To sunder even memory. Your fame
Rang hollow on my ear, and then you came
And love laughed for the lie he would redeem.
 
 
It is too late. Love will not let me go.
The bare suns burn me, and the strong winds blow;
I take them fearlessly, for I am wise
At last; for being yours I must be brave,
Tho’ you give nothing, still am I your slave,
The light within my heart your eyes, your eyes.
 

THE GARDEN HEDGE

 
I live in a beautiful garden,
All joyous with fountains and flowers;
I reck not of penance or pardon,
At ease thro’ the exquisite hours.
 
 
My blossoms of lilies and pansies,
Pale heliotrope, rosemary, rue,
All lull me with delicate fancies
As shy as the dawn and the dew.
 
 
But the ghost—Gods—the ghost in the gloaming,
How it lures me with whispers and cries,
How it speaks of the wind and the roaming,
Free, free, ’neath the Romany skies.
 
 
’Tis the hedge that is crimson with roses,
All wonderfully crimson and gold,
And caged in my beautiful closes
I know what it is to be old.
 

THE SLAVE WOMAN

 
Her eyes are dark with unknown deeps,
Old woes and new despair,
Her shackled spirit feels the thong
That breaks her body bare.
 
 
The savage master of her days
Who mocks her passive pain,
How should he know her scorn of him.
Indifferent to the stain?
 
 
For in her heart she sees the glow
Of sacrificial fires,
A priestess of a mystic rite
Performed on nameless pyres.
 
 
The incident of shame and toil
She takes with idle breath,
For she remembers Africa,
And what to her is death?
 

SONG

 
The sky is more blue than the eyes of a boy,
A riot of roses entangles the year;
Ah, come to me, run to me, fill me with joy,
Dear, dear, dear.
 
 
The air is a passion of perfume and song,
The little moon swings up above, look above,
I cannot wait longer, I’ve waited so long,
Love, love, love.
 

SANS-JOY

 
Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries,
Israfel will charm you with the magic of his song:
Yet you will not smile for him, by reason of your memories,
For Lucifer is absent, and the cry goes up, How long!
 
 
For his expiation you would give your dreams and destinies,
Paradise is clouded by the measure of your pain;
Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries,
Till the jasper gates swing wide to bring him home again.
 

OUT OF THE JUNGLE

 
Out of the jungle he came, he came,
Man of the lion’s breed,
His heart was fire and his eyes were flame,
And he piped on a singing reed.
 
 
Spring was sweet and keen in his blood,
Singing, he sought his mate,
The wife for the life and time of his mood,
Formed for his needs by fate.
 
 
Over his reed he piped and sang,
His eyes were the eyes of a man,
But the jungle knew how his changes rang,
For his heart was the heart of Pan.
 

IN PORT

 
Wave buffeted and sick with storm,
The ships came reeling in,
The harbour lights were kind and warm,
And yet, so hard to win.
 
 
Like wings, the tired sails fluttered down,
While night began to fall,
Then came, sea-scarred, toward the town,
The smallest ship of all.
 
 
At last in harbour, safe and still,
No more she need be brave,
No more she’d meet the winds’ rough will,
The wanton of each wave.
 
 
The harbour lights! but where the moon
Should murmur blessings bright,
Clouded instead the dread typhoon,
That thundered down the night.
 
 
What curse the luring harbour bore
Of false security;
The port held desolation more
Than boasted all the sea.
 
 
When morning came with leering lip,
What death lay on her breast,
And oh! the little weary ship
Was wrecked with all the rest.
 

SONNY BOY

(A bust by H. F.)

 
Grave as a little god, erect and wise,
He dares the years that open to his gaze.
Brave in his charming beauty, he portrays
A bright eternal youth, and in his eyes
Sweet moons that are no more. No sad surprise
Has gloomed the gay adventure of his ways,
And from the flower-lit meadow of the days
He leaps clean-hearted to life’s enterprise.
 

SUNRISE

 
There was a cry from the sky,
A cry at night;
It wakened the breeze in the trees
When the moon was white;
And I, only I,
Adrift on life’s terrible seas,
Read the cry aright.
 
 
Pennants of gold were unrolled,
They told of sun;
Night’s pain with the dark and the rain,
Was over and done.
The travail of old
Had passed from the mother again,
And the fight was won.
 
 
There was a cry from the sky,
And my soul was torn
With a passion divine, as of wine,
From the breast of morn;
For I, only I,
Knew the cry as the signal and sign
That love was born.