Kitabı oku: «Gypsy Verses», sayfa 6

SIN, THE SWORD

 
Sin was a terrible and ruddy sword,
My hands were only lilies, only made
To lay against his lips, and so I prayed
Another weapon. Willingly I poured
On his strong heart the gifts that could accord
With my life’s fact, but Ah! the gifts were weighed
And all found wanting—and I was afraid
Of love which was so dreadfully my lord.
He showed me the magnificence, the height
To be attained for those who dare to seek,
For those who dare the wonder and delight.
I might attain—I might—but if I should!—
I was afraid, my fainting heart was weak,
And so, Love help me, I was only—good!
 

FANTASTIC SPRING

 
Wear a lure fantastical,
Farthingales of Spring,
Till the out-worn city hearts
Dance for you and sing.
 
 
Lime us with grotesque desires,
Warm with green and gold;
Apathetic we have grown,
Tired and hard and old.
 
 
Draw us gently to your truth,
Calm our hopes and fears;
Till at last the grass blades speak
To attentive ears.
 

SONG

 
We only ask for sunshine,
We did not want the rain;
But see the flowers that spring from showers
All up and down the plain.
 
 
We beg the gods for laughter,
We shrink, we dread the tears;
But grief’s redress is happiness,
Alternate through the years.
 

CONTRAST

 
Steady stand the ilex trees,
All the leaves are still,
Motionless the opal haze
Drowses on the hill.
 
 
There a marble statue waits
Patient of the hours,
Ringed about with silent sun
Over dreamy flowers.
 
 
Nature mirrors perfect peace,
Round me everywhere,
Only in my heart is found
Torment and despair.
 

THE PRICE

 
We are so tired of merely being human,
Loving or loved, the sweet imperfect woman.
Masters, you know not what your lips have missed,
On the rose mouths you keep but to be kissed.
 
 
We are Astarte, we are Lilith, we
Know the blue veils which you have named the sea
Cover the eyes of Isis; that the sky
Is the white body of Neith, arched so on high.
 
 
Ours is a secret language, when we smile,
Dreams are denied at birth, all to beguile
Your earthy substance. Ah, at what fell cost
We pay you, so our heritage is lost.
 

THE KING’S DAUGHTER

 
She was the fairest of the King’s fair daughters,
Gold and rubies glittered on her hands;
Her voice was the lilting of a rain of silver waters,
And her lovers were as endless as her lands.
 
 
Down thro’ the birch wood with her maidens all about her,
So virginal she came with dainty tread,
At my eyes she was silent,—could a gypsy turn and flout her:
Love I looked and love I spoke, till white grew red.
 
 
Free she was as fair, she forgot her father’s palace,
Left her lands to wander at my side;
She is crowned with forest leaves, with my two curved hands for chalice:
Spring and love must bring a gypsy to his bride.
 

LAIS

 
You are white as the moths of Twilight,
You are secret as mist and dew,
And your down-dropped eyes
Are eternally wise,
Strange sins have wrought their hue.
 
 
Mother of men and women,
They are ghosts, not men you have bred;
In infinite scorn
Their bodies were born
While their souls were worse than dead.
 
 
We are what your lips have made us,
Empty, and bitterly old;
Our faith has lied,
Oh, barren bride,
And the fires of the world are cold.
 

THE HERITAGE

 
How shall the present verify the past?
Like flames we strove, still onward, upward rising,
Spurning the singing continents—at last,
Wrecked on this fatal day of our devising.
 
 
Nurtured by lunar rainbows, chill and sweet,
Our fancy was a gossamer of beauty;
Now like a web it drags about our feet,
Named with the symbols drear of fact and duty.
 
 
We who were heirs to Egypt, India’s child,
Suckled by Greece, and cradled by Cathay,
How tacitly we waive this breeding wild,
Deny our parents in our deeds to-day.
 
 
Let us awake—obedient to our dreams,
Let us embrace huge issues, comprehending
The scheme entire—Great Beauty’s birth, which seems
The glorious urge for life, unchecked, unending.
 

THE MONK IN HIS GARDEN

 
The air is heavy with a mist of spice,
Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue,
Have I not paid, have I not paid the price?
How shall these tempters torture me anew?
 
 
I close my eyes and dream the incense drifts
Over the monstrance, and the acolyte
Swings the gold censer. Then the vision lifts:
I know the poisonous joys I have to fight.
 
 
Day with its flowers and yellow butterflies,
Holds for my heart no pain, the wind is free
That blows upon my garden from far skies,
Yet may I hold it in white chastity.
 
 
But night!—and the still air!—Ah, God above,
Have I the strength to wage thy war anew?
Blot out my senses or I die for love,—
Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue!
 

BIANCA

 
The orchard apples hung above,
Golden and red and green.
Her face beneath was ripe for love,
Cat-eyed with sparks between.
 
 
Simples she came to gather there
With hands of ivory;
Gold fillets bound her golden hair;
Her gown was cramosie.
 
 
She plucked the herbs with subtle grace,
Derisive in her deed.
Was there no Prince to read her face,
No Prince with Beauty’s need?
 
 
Her hands with cassia buds were sweet:
“Come, love,” her young heart cried,
The Prince with delicate swift feet,
Was even at her side!
 
 
Her tamed white leopard leaped in fear,
Love beckons love so soon.
They gathered no more simples there,
The long late afternoon.