Anthology of Massachusetts Poets Part 12

VIII

This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life.

The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength In the l.u.s.t of attainment.

Aiming at things for Heaven too high, Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength.

So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found: Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars, The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds, Whose eye is filled with the Image of G.o.d, And the end is Death!

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

FRIMAIRE

DEAREST, we are like two flowers Blooming in the garden, A purple aster flower and a red one Standing alone in a withered desolation.

The garden plants are shattered and seeded, One brittle leaf sc.r.a.pes against another, Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals.

Now only you and I nodding together.

Many were with us; they have all faded.

Only we are purple and crimson, Only we in the dew-clear mornings, Smarten into color as the sun rises.

When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, And later when my cold roots tighten, I am anxious for morning, I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.

You or I-and I am a coward.

Surely frost should take the crimson.

Purple is a finer color,

Very splendid in isolation.

So we nod above the broken Stems of flowers almost rotted.

Many mornings there cannot be now For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!

AMY LOWELL

PATTERNS

I WALK down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.

I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

Not a softness anywhere about me, Only a whale-bone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my pa.s.sion Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please.

And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the splashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden paths.

The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.

I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon-- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.

"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday sen'night."

As I read it in the white morning sunlight.

The letters squirmed like snakes.

"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.

"No," I told him.

"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

No, no answer."

And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one.

I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband, In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as lady, On this shady seat.

He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing.

And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."

Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and the daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

I shall go Up and down, In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.

And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each b.u.t.ton, hook and lace.

For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war.

Christ! What are patterns for?

AMY LOWELL

A BATHER

THICK dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade.