Emblems Of Love Part 11

But what have I to do with this? And when Was that song put in hiding 'mid my thought?

I might be on my way to meet and give Good morrow to my--Ah! last night, last night!

O fie! I must not dream so.

[_At the Gate_.

It _was_ I!

I am the girl whose lover they have killed, Who never saw him until out of death He lookt into my soul. I was to meet Somewhere in life my lover, and behold, He has turned into an inn I dare not enter, And gazes through a window at my soul Going on labour'd with this loving body.-- Did I not sleep last night with you in my arms?

I could have sworn it. Why should body have So large a part in love? For if 'twere only Spirit knew how to love, an easy road My feet had down to death. But I must want Lips against mine, and arms marrying me, And breast to kiss with its dear warmth my breast,-- Body must love! O me, how it must ache Before it is as numb as thine, dear boy!

Poor darling, didst thou forget that I was made To wed thee, body and soul? For surely else Thou hadst not gone from life.-- Ah, folk already, Coming to curse the light with all their stares.

V

KATRINA _and_ JEAN.

_Katrina_.

Where are you off to, Jean, in such a tear?

_Jean_.

I'm busy.

_Katrina_.

O you light-skirts! who is it now?

You think I can't guess what your business is?

Is it aught fresh, or only old stuff warmed?

_Jean_.

Does not the smartness in your wits, Katrina, Make your food smack sourly?--Well, this time, It's serious with me. I believe I'm caught.

_Katrina_.

O but you've had such practice in being caught, You'll break away quite easily when you want.

Tell me now who it is.

_Jean_.

The man who spoke When we were at the Scottish Gate that day.

O, he's a dapper boy! Did you mark his eyes?

_Katrina_.

Nay, I saw nought but he was under-grown.

_Jean_.

Pooh! He can carry me.

_Katrina_.

Jean, have you heard Of Mary lately?--I vow she's in love.

_Jean_.

Never! with whom?

_Katrina_.

The thing's a wonder, Jean.

She'll speak to no one now, and every day, Morning and evening, she's at the gate Gazing like a fey creature on that head She was so stricken to behold--you mind it?-- I tell you she's in love with it.

_Jean_.

O don't be silly.

How can you fall in love with a dead man?

And what good could he do you, if you did?

One loves for kisses and for hugs and the rest; A s.p.u.n.ky fellow,--that's the thing to love.

But a dead man,--pah, what a foolery!

_Katrina_.

O yes, to you; for Love's a game for you.

'Twill turn out dangerous maybe, but still,--a game.

_Jean_.

Yes, the best kind of game a girl can play, And all the better for the risk, Katrina.

But where the fun would be in Love if he You played with had not heart to jump, nor blood To tingle, nothing in him to go wild At seeing you betray your love for him, Beats me to understand. You'ld be as wise Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone As loving one that never lived for you.

It isn't just to make a wind you blow, But to turn red fire into white quivering heat.

Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl: I know what love is. But perhaps she saw The poor lad living? Even had speech with him?

_Katrina_.

Not she; Mary has never known a lad I did not know as well. We've shared our lives As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure She's never been in love before.

_Jean_.

Before?

Don't talk such sentimental nonsense--

_Katrina_.

Why, If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything, Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world Whom, if you come across him, you must love, And you could no more pa.s.s his face unmoved Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead, Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes, It is enough: he is the man for you, All as if he were quick and signalling His heart to you in smiles.

_Jean_.

Believe me, dear, You've no more notion of the thing called Love Than a grig has of talking. But I have, And I'm off now to practise with my notions.

_Katrina_.

Now which is the real love,--hers or Mary's?

VI

_Before Dawn, At the Scottish Gate_.

_Mary_.

Beloved, beloved!--O forgive me That all these days questioning I have been, Struggled with doubts. Your power over me, That here slipt through the nets death caught you in, Lighted on me so greatly that my heart Could scarcely carry the amazement. Now I am awake and seeing; and I come To save you from this post of ignominy.

A ladder I have filched and thro' the streets Borne it, on shoulders little used to weight.

You'll say that I should not have bruised myself?-- But it is good, and an ease for me, to have Some ache of body.--Now if there's any c.h.i.n.k In death, surely my love will reach to thee, Surely thou wilt be ware of how I go Henceforth through life utterly thine. And yet Pardon what now I say, for I must say it.

I cannot thank thee, my dear murder'd lad, For mastering me so. What other girls Might say in blessing on their sweethearts' heads, How can I say? They are well done to, when Love of a man their beings like a loom Seizes, and the loose ends of purposes Into one beautiful desire weaves.

But love has not so done to me: I was A nature clean as water from the hills, One that had pleased the lips of G.o.d; and now Brackish I am, as if some vagrom malice Had trampled up the springs and made them run Channelling ancient secrecies of salt.

O me, what, has my tongue these bitter words In front of my love's death? Look down, sweetheart, From the height of thy sacred ignominy And see my shame. Nay, I will come up to thee And have my pardon from thy lips, and do The only good I can to thee, sweetheart.