Forty-Two Poems Part 4

Mary, art thou the little maid Who plucked me flowers in Spring?

I know thee not: I feel afraid: Thou'rt strange this evening.

A sweet and rustic girl I won What time the woods were green; No woman with deep eyes that shone, And the pale brows of a Queen.

MARY (inattentive to his words.)

A stranger came with feet of flame And told me this strange thing, - For all I was a village maid My son should be a King.

JOSEPH

A King, dear wife. Who ever knew Of Kings in stables born!

MARY

Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blue The clarion and the horn?

JOSEPH

Mary, alas, lest grief and joy Have sent thy wits astray; But let me look on this my boy, And take the wraps away.

MARY

Behold the lad.

JOSEPH

I dare not gaze: Light streams from every limb.

MARY

The winter sun has stored his rays, And pa.s.sed the fire to him.

Look Eastward, look! I hear a sound.

O Joseph, what do you see?

JOSEPH

The snow lies quiet on the ground And glistens on the tree;

The sky is bright with a star's great light, And clearly I behold Three Kings descending yonder hill, Whose crowns are crowns of gold.

O Mary, what do you hear and see With your brow toward the West?

MARY

The snow lies glistening on the tree And silent on Earth's breast;

And strong and tall, with lifted eyes Seven shepherds walk this way, And angels breaking from the skies Dance, and sing hymns, and pray.

JOSEPH

I wonder much at these bright Kings; The shepherds I despise.

MARY

You know not what a shepherd sings, Nor see his shining eyes.

NO COWARD'S SONG

I am afraid to think about my death, When it shall be, and whether in great pain I shall rise up and fight the air for breath Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain.

I am no coward who could seek in fear A folklore solace or sweet Indian tales: I know dead men are deaf and cannot hear The singing of a thousand nightingales.

I know dead men are blind and cannot see The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes, And they are witless--O I'd rather be A living mouse than dead as a man dies.

A WESTERN VOYAGE

My friend the Sun--like all my friends Inconstant, lovely, far away - Is out, and bright, and condescends To glory in our holiday.

A furious march with him I'll go And race him in the Western train, And wake the hills of long ago And swim the Devon sea again.

I have done foolishly to head The footway of the false moonbeams, To light my lamp and call the dead And read their long black printed dreams.

I have done foolishly to dwell With Fear upon her desert isle, To take my shadowgraph to h.e.l.l, And then to hope the shades would smile.

And since the light must fail me soon (But faster, faster, Western train!) Proud meadows of the afternoon, I have remembered you again.

And I'll go seek through moor and dale A flower that wastrel winds caress; The bud is red and the leaves pale, The name of it Forgetfulness.

Then like the old and happy hills With frozen veins and fires outrun, I'll wait the day when darkness kills My brother and good friend, the Sun.

FOUNTAINS

Soft is the collied night, and cool The wind about the garden pool.

Here will I dip my burning hand And move an inch of drowsy sand, And pray the dark reflected skies To fasten with their seal mine eyes.