Kitabı oku: «Herbs and Apples», sayfa 3

VERITATIS

 
Seated among the shards of Potiphar
I pondered. Shall we still strive on? forsooth
There is no better, that is good as Best,
There is no truer that is true as Truth.
 

THE PEACOCK

 
She was more beautiful than tropic night,
Luring, compelling as the smile of Fate;
Like a poor wastrel, I for her delight
Squandered my soul and gained her idle hate.
Peacock and paroquet!—at last I know
The sorriest songsters make the bravest show.
 

ANTICIPATION

 
The joy is in the making. While we sow
Our dream is wonderful with flowers, we name
The purlieus of our garden and the aim
Is worth the effort, yet we cannot know
The garden will be just a garden, so
The dream is heaven. This way mothers frame
The child's high dedication to its fame,
Repaid for all reality may show.
 
 
God knows this, so He lets us have the best,
The vast anticipation, rugged man
Joys in the struggle, triumphs over throes,
Vanquished a thousand times he still finds zest
In hope and all his pleasure in a plan
To be fulfilled at length in Heaven?—who knows.
 

THE WAYFARER

 
Half way to happiness,
The whole way back again,
Stumbling up the stubborn hill
From the luring lane.
 
 
Little sunset House of Hearts
Standing all alone,
I could come and sweep the leaves
From your stepping stone.
 
 
I, and he, could light your fires
Laughing at the rain
But O it's far to Happiness,
A short way back again.
 

RENUNCIATION

 
Not what I ask, but what I do not ask,
O my Beloved, proves my love for you.
And love can set to love no harder task
Than wistful silence, reticence to sue.
 
 
I lock my lips, I force a wise content
With all my being wailing for a sign.
Ah, if men knew what woman's smiling meant
When fierce and hard the heart cries out "He's mine."
 
 
Mothers of men are we, we barren ones
Who say "Be happy, dear, and play your part."
What matter how we yearn, you are our sons
Whose every footfall breaks a woman's heart.
 

ARABESQUE

 
Gold fish, rose and red
As lady Lillith's hair,
Mauve and blue as curling smoke
And water-sapphires there.
 
 
At the fountain's brim
I built a little dream,
As a goldsmith cunningly
I made it flash and gleam.
 
 
I wrought a maiden shape,
I colored it with love,
Scarlet mouth and breast of pearl
And eyes of turtle dove.
 
 
Thro' hours of moony dark,
I woo'd her for my bride
But ah! I could not build her soul,
So with the dawn she died.
 

THE ARCHITECTS

 
How shall we build it curiously well,
Our house to live and love in?—Shall it be
Only significant to you and me,
Or shall it be a palace where may dwell
Those whom our spirits notice? May we tell
An architect to loose his fancy free
To toss up towers in soaring ecstasy
With Doric dignity or temple bell?
Or shall we build it with our hands, alone,
Working together over wood and stone
To learn an art we never knew, and strive,
Patient, to raise with faith and trust and love,
Fashioned so cunningly it must survive,
A secret cottage in a silent grove?
 

AMBUSH

 
Crafty Chieftain, where you lie
You can see the clouds drift by,
Waiting in the dusky fern
For your enemy's return.
 
 
Does the beauty of that place
Never tell you of my face,
I, you left, to plot and plan
For the ending of a man?—
 
 
You had better sought my aid,
I have met him unafraid,
We have wandered all alone
Underneath a yellow moon.
 
 
We have found the end of strife
Is the waking up to life—
Therefore you, who forced my vow,
Take my all of wisdom now.
 
 
Love has taught me but one truth—
Love is merry, love is youth,
We be children, he and I.
Where is your sagacity?
 

THE SCALES

 
I wonder if the store of joy
And love is limited,
And if because my heart is glad
Some other heart has bled.
 
 
Believing this, a balance just
Of recompense, I pray
That my beloved gained the joy
I did not have to-day.
 

THE OLD TRAGEDY

 
Did I allure you?—I only meant to love you,
I only meant to be so dear you could not let me go.
I held you close against my heart, bending down above you,
As mothers brood above their babes, I loved you, loved you so.
 
 
'T was passion that moved you, called to you and caught you;
You never felt my tenderness full launched on your desire.
You never knew the friendship and sympathy I brought you.
Ah, Mary pity women when their veins are filled with fire.
 
 
And so I have lost you, I who never won you;
You thought me but a siren by your crafty arts beguiled.
I hate myself and scorn you for the honor I have done you.
I leave you, bitter woman, and I came to you a child.